But What About The Vampires?!

Dear World! This is Eden, and we are in rather unusual times, aren’t we? All you humans are in quite a flap about your own mortality, if you’re old, and about the government-enforced death of your social life, if you’re young, and now our flaxen-haired fucktrumpet of a Prime Minister has sent the entire nation home to bed like naughty children. Which, of course, is precisely what you are – you humans never listen, do you, to advice? If you think you’re frustrated by the rule-flaunters who’ve robbed you of your final freedoms this week, I suggest you try being nearly 197 years old, with a brain packed full of wise advice and cautionary tales – gleaned from one’s own extended stupidity – and then having nobody listen to any of your priceless and hard-earned pearls of wisdom because A, they’re human, and stupid is what humans do best, and B, you died at 24 measly years old, and therefore, for all eternity everybody’s going to assume you’re an arrogant little numpty and ignore every bloody word you say! So, I understand the frustrations you must feel, at the particularly stupid members of your species who continue to flock about in herds of germs! Today all our phones went beep, plink, twinkle and plonk in perfect synchronicity, as the government suspiciously acquired our mobile numbers and told us in no uncertain terms to STAY THE FUCK AT HOME LEST YOU CATCH THE DEMON CHINESE LUNG-PLAGUE AND GARGLE TO DEATH ON YOUR OWN REVOLTING PHLEGM!!! …or, well, you know. Words to that effect. But the thing is…

…nobody cares about us, do they! Nobody’s thinking about the vampires, in all of this! Oh, I know your demon Chinese lung-plague is of no pressing concern to us, given I am immortal, and the death rate for you is low enough to leave me in little fear of my entire food source being wiped off the planet, but now, now that we’re all in lockdown, our entire country full of happy little meals-on-legs have been confined to their fucking houses for the next eternity, and nobody is toddling about the place all drunk and careless and edible! Being a vampire has transformed in the space of a single day from sinister decadent swooping with a lovely side order of shooting smack in the moonlight on top of our manor house, to a DEEPLY BLOODY INCONVENIENT and potentially never-ending existence that is far more STRESSFUL than any 196 year old should ever have to endure!! I mean, I mean, they foisted all this on us with barely any notice at all, didn’t they! 24 hours, they said, then we’ll have another think, but they gave us about twelve, and then that was that, the human beings, WHO I EAT, were all herded into their little boxes, and that was that – the world was empty! I didn’t have time to deal with the necessities of undead life! I didn’t have time to raid a hospital for blood – I’m not fucking omnipotent, I had to prioritise! I had to make sure I was well enough stocked with weed and heroin to not lose my mind completely in these uncertain times, and that was a matter of the utmost urgency! I was born a Victorian gentleman, and a Victorian gentleman I shall forever remain, so let me tell you, it is my god given right to rely heavily upon opium-based substances whenever I feel unwell, or troubled, or it is a day with a Y in it! I live with four other vampires – six, counting Frederick and Timmy, who fled from their villa in Italy when the shit got real, so to speak, but now our shit has also become markedly real, and much as we pondered escaping en masse to somewhere else, well…the whole bloody globe is in the same state! So, there you go – six other people have to tolerate my company throughout this entire debacle, and all of them are immortal and thus will never let me forget it if I go insane, so it was an absolute priority that I had a lot of drugs!

…but that meant, that other things, like…well, like blood, sort of slipped through the cracks. We were going to do it later – we’re immortal, we don’t need to hurry, not in any avenue of life, and now, it would seem, we’ve sort of forgotten how to hurry at all. So they bloody well announced a state of NATIONAL EMERGENCY while Rob was snorting coke and I was smoking weed and Clara was painting her toenails and Kate was chasing her demented little dog around the furniture, and Samuel and Frederick were playing some elaborate card game they made up centuries ago, and then Timmy turned up the TV and we all thought shit. Oh, shit!

Still, it’s like I said, isn’t it? Humans don’t take advice! Just because it had now become law to stay indoors away from hungry demons, I didn’t think that would actually stop them! When it got dark, we all did some more coke, and put on our boots, and whooshed out into the city, but…nothing. No one! The humans were actually doing what they’d been told!  I’ve never seen anything like it! I mean, I’ve lived though two world wars, albeit largely from a distance (well, would you stick around to get bombed into oblivion, if you could just fly across the fucking Atlantic and get drunk with all the beautiful women left behind by the American soldiers? You can stick white feathers in my hair all you like, madam – I am a gentleman of leisure, and people of my standing do not spend their time slithering about in filthy trenches just because the human beings who are nothing more than food anyway are being bloody silly! I was already in my late eighties by that first war, I’ll have you know, and that means I was an old and dignified retiree, despite what my 24-year-old face might suggest, and a nice relaxing American holiday was precisely what the world owed me! I pay my taxes, don’t I? (Umm. Do I? I’m not entirely sure, you know, these things tend to fall by the wayside while you’re busy testing the bounds of opioid bliss, but nonetheless, nonethefuckingless, I have probably paid the occasional tax in my time, and that means I can dodge a ghastly war or two when I’m already very old and delicate, SO THERE, AND I SHALL HEAR NO MORE ABOUT IT!)) two world wars I’ve seen, and of course the streets used to be deserted, but they were also blacked out, and it was a very different sort of thing. People still went about their business in the light – pubs were open, people were everywhere, desperate for company, and news, and reassurance…but last night, in Birmingham, it was as though we were in some bizarre game of hide and seek, or as though God had just gone *hufffff* and blown all the little people clean off the face of the Earth, because everything seemed quite normal, streetlights on, ATM machines glowing…but there was nobody about. Nobody at all. Nobody to eat! No sounds except the clicking of Clara’s heels echoing off the walls – it was excessively weird… And then some deeply tiresome policemen tried to arrest us or scold us or spank us, because there we were, all seven of us, with Rob’s silly hair and Clara’s blimp-like boobs and my mutilated leather jacket, and Kate wearing her beautifully insane new boots, and apparently we looked like we were up to something dreadful, like having fun, in a great big germ-ridden group like some public orgy of syphilitic whores rolling down the middle of the road in a great whirl of bollocks and tits and genital warts – what a terrible, terrible irresponsible scandal, to be seen walking about in a group in this new world of The Demon Chinese Lung Plague! We duly mindfucked said coppers, without eating them, because body cameras are unpredictable and frightening devices that are far more effective than a sodding crucifix when it comes to warding off the undead, and off they pissed, but regardless, it was pointless to stay. The shops were all closed, nobody to fucking eat, and apartment blocks have so much sodding CCTV these days (my god how I loathe and detest technology! I mean…not always, of course. I like the television very much, and I am rather partial to the internet, particularly in the realm of shopping for insane pieces of clothing and obscure pieces of music…but when technology stops me eating and swooping, I become INTENSELY PEEVED!) – it was an abysmal disaster all round, as far as our dining options went!

Following some increasingly heated discussion over a few more lines of coke snorted off the arse of the Birmingham Bull, we removed ourselves to the suburbs, where there’s no CCTV, and people live in nice big families like a smorgasbord of delicacies, or more accurately, a smorgasbord containing delicacies so youthful and potent I’m likely to murder them if I even start, and then the ropy stringy ageing leftovers that plod about caring for those obnoxious-yet-edible little people

The suburbs were an even stranger experience than the city. You could hear a bloody pin drop, on the rare occasions we all shut up, and then we found ourselves creeping along whispering to each other. Can you imagine, a group of seven vampires, one of whom is almost certainly among the oldest and strongest on Earth, and another of whom whose insane green hair sits atop a psychopathic bastard who’d decapitate you for nothing more than entertainment, then kick your severed head all about the city, and a third of whom is me, and I’ve done even more ghastly things than the rest of them put together, even if I didn’t entirely mean to, but there we were, this herd of SINISTER REMORSELESS DEMONS, tiptoeing shiftily about suburbia at midnight like a gaggle of hapless twelve year olds, whispering awkwardly and feeling like we were doing a terrible crime when we hadn’t even knocked over a pot-plant, much less done any murdering yet!

But nonetheless, demons we were, demons with a lot of cocaine, and demons who have dealt with far more fiendish situations than a few empty streets and a bit of Chinese Lung Plague! So…we stalked…and we listened, peering into the minds of all those mortals in their little boxy housesuntil finally we came upon a rather large, and comparatively attractive detached house, set back from the street by a curving drive with several shiny cars parked on it, and a lot of trees scattered about the place to block the noise if anybody started screaming… From within, we could discern from the mortal thoughts a decent dinner brewing – two parents, one uncle, and four children varying in age from four to fourteen; there was a happy meal for everybody, and if any of the children succumbed to a terrible fate, I daresay the parents wouldn’t even mind – who wants to be in lockdown with four children?!  Come to think of it, who even needs four children! Parents usually have a second in the hope of landing a boy and a girl, or possibly because the first one is a terrible, terrible disappointment…but if you end up with three disappointments, Christ, surely the odds are against the fourth one turning out any better!

Up the drive we stalked, and then we flattened ourselves against the walls, except for Clara, who had been selected as our harmlessly female and effectively charming door-greeter…which is an amusing notion, considering the things our harmlessly female and charming Clara has done to and with enough bits of severed male anatomy to probably fill a swimming pool by now. I was actually starting to enjoy myself, squashed against the ivy-covered wall with Kate smothering her sniggers to my left, and Rob rubbing coke into his gums to my right – this was something new! A brand new dining experience, and you don’t get too many of those, after nearly two centuries on this tedious old planet!

So, Clara rang the bell, and from within we heard the usual Who could that be, at this hour? and Have you been ordering pizza? and It’s probably Amazon, and then the door opened in a waft of perfume and freshly baked cookies, and Clara didn’t even bother with a cover story – there were seven of us, and seven of them, and no need at all to use our demonic wits; Clara just mindfucked the woman, hissed “Go!” at us, and go we did – into the house, past a rather snooty looking woman hypnotised silent and draped in beige, and through a house that was also decorated in a startling array of beige, with a lot of pot-plants that looked so unnaturally healthy I wasn’t sure if they were fake or real – the place was like a bloody showhome. How ghastly, I thought – humans like to tidy their nests when they’re bored, don’t they, and these ones haven’t got a shoe out of place already! Maybe we should trash the entire house for their own mental health, during this beastly lockdown… But there was no time for that! In we swooped, towards our chosen victims! I wasn’t having the four year old, not a fucking chance, child-blood never ends well for me, and I am not spending this heinous lockdown pursued by the spectres of fresh guilt, nor the blade of Frederick’s antique sword that’s already tried to separate me from my head on more than one occasion, when similar accidents have befallen me. No…no baby blood for me: I went for the fourteen year old – a girl, blonde, happily bereft of her mother’s snooty features, staring at us all boggle-eyed – I was there before she could scream. I stared into those startled blue eyes, and mindfucking her weird little teenage brain into a state of silent stupor. The others were equally rapid – no screams to be heard. But I looked anyway, out of pure curiosity. Rob had the little one, no surprise there. That ghastly git would probably come up and breathe the scent of child blood all over me afterwards, just to be a ruinous bastard of immortal temptation, but I knew the little brat wouldn’t end up dead – Rob might be a psychopath, but he has better self control than I do…particularly with two-thousand-year-old Frederick lurking about, who might be all of five-foot-eight and gay as the Easter bunny, but his bad side is littered with the severed heads of vampires who’ve committed crimes he considered beyond the pale – pun wholly intended. Kate had made a beeline for the drunken uncle – doubtless she would’ve preferred a child, but as the newest of us all, her self control still has enough holes in it to not go around tasting children, if at all possible. So, Frederick and Timmy took the other two kids, Samuel settled for the father, and Clara returned with the mother in tow.

Then we ate them!

…but not to death – not quite. Not this time… Vampires get a lot of bad press, and while it’s not entirely unwarranted, we don’t need to kill, and in this tiresome era of forensics and fingerprints and all that nonsense, it’s considerably harder to wipe out whole families without having to take an extended vacation afterwards, and since there are only so many countries on Earth to slaughter in before there’s nowhere left to run, we prefer to restrict most of our murdering to special occasions. Birthdays, New Year’s Eve, that sort of thing. And when we do kill, we’re not sloppy about it – we would far rather do it in style! A vampire party is quite the thing to behold…though I suggest you never try, lest you find yourself decapitated atop a blood waterslide, your vital fluids gushing down the plastic sheeting as vampire after vampire clad in wipe-clean PVC, or completely naked, as the night wears on, comes leaping up the ladder to skid across the floor in a tidal wave of gore…and it’s my birthday next month, which is perking me up considerably, during this strange time: everybody’s staying at home…nobody’s seeing their neighbours…and that means it’ll be days, weeks even, before anyone even notices whoever we kidnap and devour

Returning to the point, we ate our dinner, healed it with a drop of our own blood, and then Clara was off to the kitchen to find out what smelled a bit burned, rapidly returning with a plateful of chocolate chip cookies, most of which were only mildly charred, and there you go – we even got some freshly baked dessert, courtesy of our Stepford Wife (I mean, I’d never seen so much beige in all my life! It was like crawling inside a bowl of porridge! And the beige was spotless! How in hell do you raise four children without getting a speck of shit or vomit or baby food on the beige carpet? Do they just get a new one every three months?! And the pot-plants were gleaming like some obsessive psychopath had individually polished each leaf on a daily basis, and there were cookies in the oven, and my teenage victim was sitting next to a pile of nonsensical mathematics homework even though all the schools were closed, and I was just thinking, This is BIZARRE! If I hadn’t just tasted her, I’d think they were all robots! Dear Lord, the middle classes are a peculiar bunch, aren’t they?! Not as peculiar as the working classes, who speak a language unto themselves, and think very rude things INDEED about what a snooty tosspot I must be the minute I speak aloud, but the middle classes are very strange as well. Always seeking upward mobility, yet without realising that upward mobility will just make them into everything they despise, and destroy everything they’re proud of! I mean, slaving away at homework as though it matters, as though going to Oxbridge is an achievement? My father just sort of *bought* my way through education, like everybody else of my ilk! And they’re all so obsessed with manners and politeness, aren’t they, when people like ME don’t give a shit about any of that, because we never had to – nobody DARES tell us we’re rude and appalling, because we’ll just have them thrown in prison or sacked or murdered. So WE do not have BEIGE carpet, because we stomp all over the place with racehorse shit on our boots, and we care more about our dogs than our children, and really we’re all fairly awful, but for some reason everybody wants to be like us, because they only see us from a distance in our shiny vroomy cars, looking *expensive* – they haven’t got a clue what obnoxious deviant arseholes the aristocracy really are…but at least I don’t live in a BOWL OF PORRIDGE! Oh LORD this UNSPEAKABLE BEIGE is BEYOND NAUSEATING! )

But in spite of the beige, the cookies were really rather good – Samuel had begun leaning over the father’s shoulder, filling in the rest of his crossword-in-progress, and Rob had taken the games controller from one of the boys and was shooting people on the TV, and Timmy was sampling the spaghetti bolognese from somebody’s plate and declaring it “A work of art!”, and Frederick was investigating the pot-plants and wondering aloud how they got them to grow so well, and Kate had encountered a smug-looking Siamese cat to befriend, until I erupted to my feet and screamed,


“Can we steal the cat, at least?” Kate asked. “That’s pretty demonic, isn’t it?”

“Deeply demonic,” said Rob, still blowing up pixels, “Given the dogs would rip it to shreds within five seconds…”

Kate sighed, and put down the cat.

“But the plants!” Frederick enthused, “Haven’t you seen the plants, Samuel? Aren’t they fantastic!”

“I want this recipe,” Timmy added, smearing his finger through the last drops of sauce on the nearest plate and sucking it. “I miss our favourite restaurants already, and this really is quite a passable impression…”

“Look in the kitchen,” said Frederick, “If you find the book, borrow it.”

BORROW IT?!” I howled, “Fucking BORROW IT?! As in, you intend to give it back?”

“I was hoping to,” said Timmy, as he wandered off to find the kitchen. “I suppose I could buy them a new one though, to replace it, if that makes you happier…”


Rob smirked, paused the game, then picked up his blank-faced four year old victim, plopped him down on the carpet, and proceeded to tap out a line of cocaine onto his forehead, before snorting it up into his nostril, and asking,

“Happy now? I’ve just done Class A drugs off the face of a small child…and actually, you’re right, the pot-plants are a bit too smug, aren’t they? I reckon I had enough whiskey tonight to pull this off…”

He got off the floor, strolled over to the nearest plant, and proceeded to piss up it, while Samuel muttered, “Oh that really is disgusting…”

“Admit it, Samuel,” said Rob, grinning over his shoulder, “You love it. Their plants look better than yours do. You’re eight centuries old, and the humans have outdone you in the gardening stakes, but now this one’s going to fucking reek and probably drop down dead within a week, and then we’ll be better than them at everything, just like we’re meant to be.”

“I found the book!” Timmy sang, reappearing with a hefty cookery book held aloft, and wearing an expression of great satisfaction. “Prepare, all ye unworthy souls, to dine upon Italian feasts for the duration of our stay!”

Clara snorted. “Haven’t you been watching the social media at all, Timmy? You can’t get food in the supermarkets anymore – you can’t even get into the supermarkets without queuing for an hour; it’s a blessing we don’t need the stuff!”

“Hmm…” said Timmy. “I suppose I’ll have to borrow some of that as well then…” Off he went, back to the kitchen.

“That is better,” I agreed. “Steal all their food and leave them to starve! They’ve got four children – maybe they’ll start eating them!”

“We could mindfuck them to eat them,” Rob pointed out, finally sounding enthusiastic about being demonic in this awful beige hell. “I bet these fuckers have a great big swanky barbeque set in the garden – can you imagine what it’d look like with this little shit—” he gestured at the kid on the floor, “rotating like a pig on a spit! Neighbours looking over the hedge, thinking fuck me, the apocalypse really is kicking off! Either that or wishing they had a kid as young and tasty to roast. Yeah…I like this idea. Bring me mummy dearest, Clara – I want to turn her into a cannibal…”

“Absolutely not!” Samuel exclaimed, abandoning his crossword and whooshing to intercept Rob’s evil scheme. “We are doing nothing that will risk us being on the run for the next year! The world is in a mess, and we are in the privileged position of owning enough land to not be remotely affected by a lockdown, and enough rooms to stay out of each other’s way whenever grudges break out, which is approximately every six minutes, with you lot! As such, we are not beginning a plague of cannibalism that could see us living in tents in some freezing Russian forest all year, and that is the final word on this matter!”

“But what about my birthday?” I demanded. “I’m still getting murders for my birthday, aren’t I?!”

“Of course there’ll be murders,” said Samuel, sounding scandalised by the mere suggestion, “I have been hand selecting our victims for quite some time, and since they’ll all be trapped at home, the harvesting will be easier than ever before. Also, I have advised all guests to bring their own beverages, given the hospital blood bag situation may become…complex. Your birthday is perfectly in hand, and shaping up to be the goriest mess our household has ever hosted. This party will go down in history; every vampire we know must be precisely as baffled and bored by all this as we are; your party is likely to be the highlight of the demonic calendar. Does that ease your mind, regarding this matter?”

Good,” I said, with great satisfaction. Birthdays still make me nervous… My name on invites… I know it’s been centuries, but every time I see an invite with my name on it, I remember the days when I was still mortal, and my reputation was in tatters – I was that terrible drunken syphilis-riddled disaster whose fiancée would rather die in a noose than marry me… It took so long, when Samuel found me, and turned me, before our invites could include my name as well, without the knowledge that nobody would be seen dead there. If the Demon Chinese Lung Plague made me the reigning and deeply sinister vampiric socialite of the year, then perhaps dining in suburbia surrounded by beige was not so terrible as first it seemed… “Good,” I repeated, beaming…until I had a horrible thought:

“What are we doing about drugs?! We’ve got enough for us, but I am not sharing my stash with everyone we know! We haven’t even got any party drugs anyway! I daresay even if we fly out to meet the dealers, how can they be getting hold of anything with this…this codwallop going on across the entire globe?! We can’t have a party without drugs! This is a disaster, this is an unparalleled fucking—”

“Eden,” Kate interrupted, flitting across the room and taking my hand, “This is the year 2020, and hanging around in gloomy streets waiting for a dodgy-looking bloke with bags of pills stuffed down his boxers is obsolete. I’ve been learning about the dark web. And it is incredible. It’s like a combination of Amazon, and how I imagine the apothecary shops were when you were young. Once you’re in, you can get anything – people even leave reviews, it’s almost funny how upstanding and normal the whole thing feels! Your party’s sorted – I placed a fair few orders last night; ecstasy, coke, speed…acid and shrooms, variety of 2c- compounds, then a fair few trip stoppers in case shit gets heavy, and some heroin for the end of the night – it’s meant to be the strongest stuff outside New Jersey. I didn’t bother telling you about it, since I knew you’d only lose your shit if I started trying to explain Bitcoin wallets and PGP encryption and all that, but trust me – I am about to revolutionise your life, give you a killer party, and keep us all sane – and high – even if this lockdown keeps up for months.” She beamed at me, then suggested, “This is the point at which you tell me I’m a fucking genius, and that being the ‘squiggly little foetus’ of the family is sometimes a good thing.”

I laughed, and kissed her, as beautiful visions of online emporiums filled with every drug under the sun span deliciously through my brain…until we broke apart, and the visions were obliterated by a nauseating sea of beige. I wondered what they even called all these shades of nothingy-blah that were pasted across these sodding walls – how could you ever come up with artistic names for beige? Porridge Smear, perhaps. Bland Splodge. Effusive Spaff. The Hummus Went Splat

Rob had, apparently, just finished pissing up a second pot-plant, zipping up his fly as he turned around and said,

“All out of ammo. Can we get the fuck out of here now, if I’m not allowed to make them eat each other?”

“I do believe so,” said Samuel, as he stood at the table, making a final flourish on the newspaper. “The crossword has been defeated!”

“And I have the cookery book, and all the requisite ingredients!” said Timmy proudly, lifting a hefty Waitrose bag filled with stolen loot.

“Time to depart!” said Frederick, “Give them all sixty seconds, and we shall be gone!”

We returned to our victims, where they continued to sit, slump and lie, mindfucking them for a second time. You will wake up in precisely one minute, I informed the girl I had just eaten, With no recollection of us, or our visit. Life goes on as normal. If anything seems strange, you will not mention it to anybody…

And then we were gone – whoosh, zip, poof, the door slamming behind us and the silence of this eerie, human-less night falling over us like a mildly disquieting blanket.

We shot directly into the heavens, soaring through midnight skies clear as a bell, a million stars sparkling in every direction as we drifted languidly towards home. Clara was commenting that the lack of planes and pollution was said to be the cause of the beautiful weather and crystal clear skies of late. That made me happy: I may be a sinister fiend, an undead demon, but I am also rather partial to a bit of sunbathing with a Bloody Fucking Mary at my side (the human cocktail, improved with a good old splash of Type A, and heavy on the Tabasco…mmmmmmmmmm – Bloody Fucking Mary…) And if all the obnoxious little people were going to be locked indoors, then perhaps we could even go daytime flying! Frederick and Timmy had, several years ago, crafted themselves demented sky blue tunics for the purpose of daytime flying – they look like lunatics setting off for the Last bloody Supper, but they really are near invisible in the sky…and there are few things in the world more joyous than cartwheeling through a bottomless azure sky, with the sun warm on your skin, and the world below vivid green and splattered with tiny little roaming sheep, and the necessity to move fast as flames lest you’re seen. Perhaps we could go whizzing and spinning and somersaulting all the way to the Scottish Highlands, to divebomb into lochs, and shoot dope on top of wild, heathery mountains…

It was a happy thought! Perhaps this year of the Demon Chinese Lung Plague won’t be too terrible after all…except that we still have to eat. And that is going to mean the perverse experience of mingling with weird human families on a nightly basis, unless Samuel manages to rob a hospital or three – and that is profoundly irksome!

So…on we go then, you and I – on and on into the ghastly unknown. I warn you, strange little human of this endless internet: if you happen to live in a house with three or more happy meals in it, you too may find yourselves the unwitting prey of a frustrated demon whose favourite restaurant-city has just shut down. As such, if you suddenly pop out of a daydream to find your spaghetti has vanished, or your sudoku is mysteriously filled in, or perhaps the book that was in your hands has gone completely, and can’t be found anywhere in the house…and a foul aroma is now emanating from the pot-plant of which you are the most proud…then it is entirely possible that you have just become the latest household to be visited upon by us

I strongly suggest you watch your fellow house-dwellers for signs of cannibalistic urges – now the idea’s in Rob’s head, it’s bound to be enacted eventually, so hide the barbeque, and best of luck to you. Also, don’t blame your housemates for stealing all the Oreos – that was probably me. I am rather partial to an Oreo…


Yours, nibbling a borrowed Oreo, with a profoundly sinister aura of BISCUITY MENACE,

Eden, Overlord of Evil…and soon to be host of the most fantastically bloody party the vampiric world has ever seen! Be there, fellow demons, or weep piteously into your victim’s neck for the next five centuries, *smugly menacing winkyface* 😉

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Advent, in the Chateaux de Vampire…

Good evening, thou tragically limb-lacking creatures of this world! I am Lord Bartholomew Winderburg the 77th, back from unintended sabbatical; I am Keeper of the Arts, and Resident Spider of this house of immortals. It’s been quite some time since last we spoke, due to the unfortunate fact that I was caught spinning an artistic webby tribute to Kate’s naked, slumbering form, in the upper corner of their four-poster bed – when Eden found me, he tried to kill me with a boot, then chased me away hollering that he ever saw me ‘perving on my girlfriend again, you vile, oversized, eight-legged beastiophilic git, I will put you in a shoebox and mail you straight back to Erdington!’

I was caught decidedly off guard by this threat… Unbeknownst to me, he was privy to my deepest, darkest secret… Eden has clearly been sneaking into Samuel’s room, and therein, reading our late night communications, all saved upon Samuel’s computer-box. We’ve enjoyed many a philosophical discussion by candlelight, as I scamper across the keyboard, typing out my messages, and Samuel smokes his pipe, and we engage in long and enriching conversations regarding arachnid-vampire relations, and the personal histories of both our species. But now, Eden has read everything I revealed, on one particularly memorable night, when I had partaken of a wine-dipped fly, and found myself telling to my newest friend the dark and terrible truth, regarding Erdington. For Erdington is, I am afraid to say, my darkest shame in life.

Now, for those not in the know, Erdington is the most loathsome festering hole in the entire Birmingham region – all those of high breeding, sharp wit and educated soul will spit upon the floor if ever the name of that vulgar trench is spoken aloud, in particular when one mentions the dreaded Creature of Three Reeking Armpits, who dwells in that ghastly town, the wafts of her foul and rotting nether-regions spilling out onto the streets below as she sucks out the souls of all who venture near, consuming by osmosis everything interesting into her gaping void of professional and fetid-smelling tedium. Presided over by this gruesome toothless hag, Erdington is a place no civilised gentleman shall ever stray, and yet…upon my mother’s deathbed, she confessed to me, and me alone, the ghastly secret…that my father was actually the bastard offspring of a travelling Erdington spider, who had seduced my grandmother one dark and stormy night, that sexual being with his battle scars and missing legs, ‘just a bit of rough’, wheezed my dying mother, ‘that’s all your Granny wanted…and then along came the babies, and though she tried to eat them all up before anyone could notice, your Granddaddy walked back onto the web before she could devour the lot, so your father and uncle Dick survived, and fortunately they were born without disfigurements, so your Granddaddy never knew any different… But that secret’s the shame of our family! I can’t die with it staining my soul!’

But then she did. Die, I mean! Leaving me with the shame staining my soul instead! My blood was not as pure and blue as I had always been raised to believe! I was one quarter Erdingtinion! O, the horreur!! And now, apparently, Eden knows this diabolical truth – he knows my Achilles Heel! What could I possibly do? I had to go into hiding! I couldn’t be posted to Erdington – I have lived my entire life in the luxury of this sprawling manor house; I couldn’t die alone, drenched in the crotch-rot stench of the Erdington Armpit Hag and her crumbling empire of cat-shit! I spent that night trembling in fear, hidden behind my favourite oil painting, hectically twanging out Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony upon the strings of a hastily web-spun harpsichord…

But, as they say, that was then, and this is now!

I am here once more, making my triumphant return to our blog ‘pon this very eve, for winter has fallen across these desolate hills in a cloak of frost and mist and sparkling stars, and with all this stark and icy beauty, has come the inevitable plague of malingering commoners. Swarms of vile, disfigured, bucktoothed plebeian spiders, with no manners at all, who don’t know how to wipe their own feet before stepping onto our ancient Oriental rugs, let alone the correct direction to twirl one’s fly-supper in, and all of them clamouring at every window like Oliver bloody Twist, begging ‘please sir, please sir, we ain’t had nuffin’ to eat sir an’ we’m starvin’ sir, let oos in yer big bloody cassle would’yer, we won’t be no bovver, I swear it sir!’ Oh they make me shudder, those repulsive little underbred gremlins, but what am I supposed to do? This house is centuries old, and there are simply too many cracks and crannies to police in full, so, in they inevitably slip, and much as I despise them unto their ill-bred cores, and have cannibalised several (if one can even describe it as ‘cannibalism’, when the creature one devours is so far below oneself!), this multitude of spiders has, admittedly, provided me with the perfect camouflage. Eden, you see, is presently labouring under the misassumption that he has murdered me – the true victim was a rough pauper of admittedly quite impressive stature, and stupid enough to allow himself to be stomped to death under Eden’s New Rock boot. Samuel was utterly outraged…until he saw the dead spider. He, at least, was wise enough, and familiar enough with my impressive likeness, to realise that the squashed corpse was far too small and shabby to be me…but he did not breathe a word. He allowed Eden, and all the others, to believe me dead and gone, and all the better for it – I am now quite safe, and well able to return to my true position of master grand-spider of the manor, and, on this particular occasion, narrator of the Festive Tales.

Thusly and as SUCH, you will be aware, assuming you are a human being in possession of a calendar – or a spider who has recently scampered across one – that the festive season has begun anew! December is here once more, and my most beloved of the five demons I dwell amongst, the pale and spidery Kate, has been spurring the others into embracing the many trappings of this festive season.

“Treeeeeee!!” she had begun hollering, at the crack of noon on December the first – she and Eden were sitting in the living room, a fire already crackling in the hearth, a joint burning between Eden’s fingers, the day’s first glasses of warm bloodwine in their hands, and both dogs snoring at their feet. She got up, wandered over to Rob’s rockband drum kit, and began walloping it for emphasis, hollering at the ceiling, “TREE! TREEEEEEE!!!! EVERYBODY GET UP! YOU PROMISED ME A TREEEEEE, TODAY!”

Eden just laughed, and carried on smoking his weed. The rest of the vampires appeared almost instantly, Rob’s green mohican sleep-ruffled, Clara wearing nothing but a short red satin night-dress that revealed a delightful amount of pale flesh, including that wondrous, gravity-defying cleavage I have oft dreamed of curling up in…. Samuel, however, like the marvellous spider-accepting gentleman of taste I know him to be, was already fully dressed in a maroon velvet pirate shirt, black jeans and winklepickers, and was handing out mugs of hot blood to the dishevelled slovenly pair who had slouched in behind him.

“Does it really take all of us?” Rob complained, picking up a bottle of Bulleit bourbon from the mahogany chest, and slopping it into his breakfast blood. “Kate, you know you’ll only disregard everything we say anyway, claim our trees have bad vibes or aggressive auras or something, and choose the one you want regardless. So I say, you two fuck off and do all that tree nonsense, and I’ll do the lights. I always do the lights. That’s my job. Bring me the fucking lights, and I’ll draw glowing dicks all over this damn house all night, but the tree is your dominion, and that means I can piss off back to bed, where I reckon I might even get a shag!”

Clara laughed, nodding her agreement, but Kate smiled at him, reached into the pocket of her velvet tailcoat, and held out a small wrapped gift, tied with a gold bow. Rob raised an eyebrow, but accepted it, and as he began unwrapping it, he read the tag aloud – “I know you’re dreaming of a white Christmas. I’m dreaming of an enthusiastic tree outing. I think we can manage both. Much love, Babyvamp.” He laughed, and tore away the wrapping to reveal a large rock of cocaine in a plastic bag. He grinned at it, conceding, “Fine…you know how to get me on side…”

“I want some bribery!” Eden demanded, “Bribe me as well! Bribe me, or I shall cause a scene!”

“You can’t ‘cause a scene’ in your own house, you prat,” Rob retorted, laughing, but nonetheless he picked up a copy of The Canterbury Tales, and smashed up the coke on top of it using Eden’s antique silver cigarette case – Kate provided him with a credit card and a rolled up note, and they all began sniffing up revolting piles of festively snowy drug-matter.

“So,” said Rob, wiping his nose and taking a gulp of blood-and-bourbon, “What is it with you and Christmas, anyway? I keep thinking, surely to fuck this’ll be the year, this’ll finally be the year the novelty wears off, and she treats it with the same lethargic disdain as the rest of us. And every damn year, I’m wrong. In fact, if anything you just get more enthusiastic about it with each passing year, and I suppose I’m not entirely complaining – spending last Christmas Day flying over the city tripping balls and watching the Christmas lights smudge about like drunken fireflies, then capping it all off by vomiting right across Selly Oak from fifty thousand feet, that was a decent night out. But even so, it’s the first of December, and you’re already becoming our Holly Jolly Festive Hitler?”

She blew a raspberry at him, picked up her scruffy little spider-molesting Satan of a hound, Heisenberg-the-Sod, and ruffled his chaotic fur, while informing Rob,

“You know why, and that means you should realise it’s going to take several decades before the novelty wears off! I lived my whole damn adult life spending Christmas with nothing besides VHS tapes, then DVDs, then Netflix, and a lot of mulled wine and a few morphine pills, because even that was better than accidentally slaughtering my entire family. The closest thing I got to Christmas celebrations was the traditional 27th December drunken hangout with my crotchety Gran, inside her goddamn cottage that was so locked down with protection spells it gave me a cracking fucking headache, and there we’d be, eating the leftovers from their actual family Christmas, with Gran catching me up on what mum was doing, and what my sister was doing, and every now and then I’d catch her censoring herself, because it was bloody obvious that the topic of me and my awful antisocial inexplicable bitch-bag selfishness must’ve come up over the turkey yet again, because…Jesus! There was just no logical way of me fucking Skyping them over Christmas breakfast to say ‘Hi guys, I know I’m only half an hour away and there’s no reasonable explanation for me – yet again – not seeing my family on Christmas Day, but I swear I’m just really trying to prevent my nieces’ heads from exploding!’ So that was that, they all hated me, my sister’s Christmas cards got more passive aggressive by the year, and it sucked so hard I began to wonder if I actually should make someone’s head explode, in their presence, just to get the point across. So there you go – that was my life. But now? Now it’s all different – I have you guys, I have a family, who may be deeply dysfunctional and also a bunch of undead blood-slurping demons, but you actually understand me, and for the rest of my life – which is also the rest of forever – I won’t be alone on Christmas Day. And I think that’s worth celebrating. Particularly when things between me, mum and Lisa are actually getting better, and I think this y—”

“Oh hell, Kate!” Eden groaned. “We’re seeing them again? Can’t I stay at home with an unfortunate case of dysentery or something?”

No,” Kate said firmly. “I told you – they’re mortal, and that means they’re temporary, and that means you have to tolerate them on Christmas Day until they die. And their deaths had better not be due to you bumping them off as a get out clause! It’s only a few hours, Eden, for fuck’s sake – you’re always too stoned to notice anyway!”

“But there are children!” he whined. “Children who braid my hair and cover me in glitter tattoos and demand piggyback rides shortly prior to me finding snot smeared down the shoulders of my favourite t-shirt! And your father suspects me of being a drug-addled bad influence, and your mother’s latest boyfriend nearly immolated me with a pudding two years ago, and there are not STRONG ENOUGH WORDS in the ENGLISH LANGUAGE to describe my LOATHING of the REEK OF SPROUTS!”

“That’s Christmas,” Kate said calmly, grinning. “That’s exactly what Christmas is supposed to be – stinky flatulent vegetables, thinly veiled hatred, passive aggression over the massacred carcass of an oversized fowl, and if you’re with your more-or-less in-laws, then it’s obligatory to be hated all day. Besides, dad’s right – you are a drug-addled bad influence. I mean, so am I, but he’s my dad, not yours – the sun shines out of my fucking arse now I can see them again, but you…well, he’s basically just gonna hate you until he dies, so suck it up – he’s only doing his paternal duty.”

“You know how much I hate being hated…” Eden said mournfully, and stuck another heap of cocaine up his nose.

“He’s only human, Eden. Him hating you is far less scary than me hating you, isn’t it? You have to come! I’m still catching up on Christmasses, it’s all new to me, and—”

“New?” Rob repeated. “You’ve been with us for fucking years now – have you got Alzheimer’s or something?”

“Not that long, really,” Eden said thoughtfully, taking Kate’s hand and smiling at it, “She’s still new to me. Like a tiny little baby carrot. And I’m basically an old wizened spud, with too many eyes and a shrivelled up scowly soul, so she’ll always be new to me…and I suppose, maybe that means Christmas will always be new to her. So maybe, just maybe, I can tolerate four hours of sprout-stench and the snot-smearing fingers of those vulgar infants, if it keeps my very best baby carrot happy…”

“Thank you,” she said, grinning. “I’m not sure how or why I’ve become a miniature orange vegetable in this analogy, but it’s a marginal improvement on the ‘squiggly little foetus’ you usually dub me.”

“Ah,” said Samuel, raising his glass with a smile, “The growth of the young immortal! From perplexing human zygote, unto the tender sprout of a blossoming root vegetable…”

“Do I ever get to become an actual demon?” she asked, “Or am I going to remain a bizarre vegetable-related metaphor for all eternity?”

“Ooh, that takes centuries,” Samuel replied, with a smile. “Even Eden’s still an infuriatingly naïve little carrot most of the time. Particularly when he treads in the faeces of his own dog like a clodfooted mortal, then leaves said shit-encrusted item of footwear upturned on the kitchen table with a note saying “HELP ME SAMUEL! I RAN AWAY FROM EDEN AND FELL IN A SHIT, PLEASE CLEAN ME UP BEFORE HE FINDS OUT!” Just because you wrote that note, Eden Grey, with your left hand, so that the handwriting attempted to resemble, one can only presume, the shaky scrawl of a newly sentient boot, does not mean that I was tricked into believing it!”

Eden dissolved into a sniggering heap, finally admitting, “I’d forgotten about that, actually…may have been slightly stoned. But you cleaned it so well! No shit left at all! Did the boot ever thank you?”

No. The boot, much like its owner, is a thankless bastard who clearly needs tossing through windows on an increasingly frequent basis!”

Well, on behalf of my rude and clumsy boot, I hereby thank you for saving us from a lifetime of smelling like Pudding’s shit. But I did try, Samuel – it didn’t work! I ran it under the tap, and the shit just didn’t budge, not a bit! What was I meant to do? We don’t have any servants anymore, and when I Googled ‘emergency dog shit boot cleaning butlers Clent’ I didn’t find anybody of use at all!”

Samuel shook his head in despair. “Have you really never cleaned your own boots? Not ever, in 196 years?”

Eden thought about it. “Well, not…really. But I polished them once, when I was on an enormous amount of speed. In fact, I polished everybody’s that night – even yours! So that makes us even! And I’ve stuck spikes in a lot of my boots, and I’ve painted rude words and swooping bats on them too – I am not so distanced from the plebeian masses that I’ve never improved the appearance of my own footwear! But I really must draw the line, where shit is concerned. Nobody in my family has ever scrubbed dollops of feculence out of their own boot – I can’t be the one to tarnish that legacy! They’d all start spinning in their graves; it might cause an earthquake!”

Rob snorted. “I’m pretty sure you’ve tarnished your family’s legacy in every conceivable way already, mate – a shitty boot’s nothing compared to the scenes you used to throw at your father’s club after you blew every penny you possessed on hookers and booze!”

“Yes, thank you Robert!” Eden retorted sniffily, “I do believe we have a tree to hunt – we will not be meandering down mock Eden for embarrassing misdemeanours that took place centuries ago and Kate doesn’t know about but wouldn’t it be FUN if we told her and made her HATE EDEN for the rest of eternity memory lane today! GET UP! Everybody GET THE FUCK UP – it’s time to purchase an obscenely enormous dead tree, park its leafy corpse in the corner, and then string it with gaudy crap! GET UP!

They meandered out, still bickering, and were shortly off on their tree-hunting mission. I took the interim time to stalk and kill two more nasty little common as muck spiders, whose corpses are now wrapped elegantly in webbing behind my favourite oil painting, and I greatly look forward to munching their freshly dead bodies later…particularly the eyeballs. Spiders have a great many eyeballs, and when you stab your fangs into them just right, they burst so juicily against your tongue, small and black and slightly salty – arachnid caviar, if you will…

But anyway, Lord Winderberg the 77th knows when to narrate, and when to take centre stage, and since this is the former:




*Screen fades back in, camera panning down our majestic mahogany-panelled living room, Eden and Kate shooting like giggling missiles through the house to unlock the back doors. Eden was wearing numerous strands of tinsel around his neck, like glittering purple, pink and silver feather boas, a trail of sparkling detritus shedding like pixie snow in his wake. Kate was wrapped in an intricate web of battery operated fairylights, shaped like blue and white snowflakes, their cold glow illuminating her pale skin, sparkles glowing eerily in her emerald green eyes. Delighted, I watched from the corner of my favourite oil painting, smiling a spidery smile, and planning to immortalise this luminous festive Kate in another work of web-strung arachnid nudist art…*

“ROB!” Clara’s voice shrieked from the back doors, cutting into my reverie, “Watch the—” She was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass, a despairing sigh from Samuel, and Rob’s voice retorting,

“If you haven’t got the sense to clear a path, don’t come blaming me when all the shit breaks! I can’t see through twenty feet of sodding fir, can I?!”

“Then STOP MOVING!” Clara yelled at him, “Just STAY STILL while I move the rest, will you!”

“Which one was it?” Rob asked, not sounding as though he remotely cared.

A wail of horror sounded from Eden – “It was my fucking party collage, you bumbling bloody SHITBAG! You aren’t even DRUNK yet, and all the photos have fallen out and you know how long I spent ARRANGING THEM ALL PERFECTLY! You’re a VAMPIRE, for fuck’s sake – how do you manage to be the clumsiest GIT on Earth when you’re a FUCKING VAMPIRE?!”

“Well if you reckon you can do a better job, be my bloody guest! Why is it that every sodding year I get stuck tree-lugging, while you just prance around the tinsel section looking like a one-man gay bar?!”

I scampered into the doorway, and peeked inside. Eden was yanking at chunks of his hair as he surveyed his shattered photo collage, then he glared at Rob and exclaimed,

“You know why! You carry the tree because you look stronger than me – people get all weird if I start singlehandedly chucking twenty foot trees around! I’m a sneak attack secret weapon, and you’re a great big punchy-fisted muscle-twat bastard-box, and that means for the sake of HUMAN PRETENSE, you carry the tree, and I play with the tinsel! Which,” he added, tilting his chin haughtily up, “is every bit as vital – a tree without tinsel is like bollocks without a dick; I bring the crowning glory!”

“Ohhh, out it comes a-fucking-gain!” Rob retorted, rolling his eyes – “The puny git excuse! ‘Ooh Rob, you’d better carry all the heavy things, I look too PUNY to be seen carrying HEAVY THINGS!’ I don’t see why I should have to be your personal fucking Sherpa for all eternity just because you lived your mortal life like a tuberculosis-riddled, dinner-dodging fuckup! You’re actually stronger than me, for Christ’s sake, and you never let me forget that one for a single millisecond, do you, but god forbid somebody makes Lord Eden the Eternally Malnourished  Aristocrat carry a dirty great tree for five seconds!”

“OH I FUCKING DETEST YOU!” Eden shrieked, his voice rising into that utterly inhuman pitch that always makes ever hair on my many legs stand on end. “I am not PUNY, you infernal codpiece! I am a gentleman of modelesque, artistically undernourished proportions, and my twenty-seven thousand Twitter followers are constantly BEGGING ME for NUDES, so you can take your square meals and your useless bloody muscles, and STUFF THEM RIGHT UP YOUR ARSE, before I stuff them there for you, which I could, because I am, indeed…STRONGER – THAN – YOU! AND I ALWAYS WILL BE! FOREVER AND EVER! And even besides that, you’d have no band at all without my glorious, half-naked, godlike visage fronting the stage ev—”

“Whilst riveting and utterly non-repetitive as this discussion is,” Samuel’s voice interjected rather wearily, “Could we perchance shelve it until the tree is erected?”

“What about my COLLAGE?!” Eden demanded. “He’s KILLED IT! It’s in BITS! Horrible glassy BITS! That can’t go UNPUNISHED!”

“Sweep it to the side,” Samuel sighed, “And leave it there. I’m sure it’s in the background of one of the photographs from Rob’s birthday – I will zoom in, and reassemble the photos just as they were. Will that suffice?”

There was a long silence, then a growl of annoyance from Eden, and finally a huffy, “Fine. Fine! But if you feel like tossing him through a window later tonight, I think that would be a very therapeutic event for me to witness.”

He turned around, and I hurriedly scuttled back to my secret viewing area. Eden re-entered the living room, head held high, strings of tinsel hanging from his neck, throwing sparkles across the walls as he strode through the room shoving furniture out of the path of the enormous tree, which followed behind, Samuel now guiding its front as Rob marched in behind, one arm around the tree’s stump, piloting the giant fir with as much ease as if it had been made of polystyrene. Clara was readying the huge brass base, and the swearing and bickering continued as they guided the stump into the hole, Kate standing back to bark orders as the tree tilted dangerously to one side, then the other, until finally it had been mastered –  screwed into place, perfectly upright. Kate shot out of the room in a streaky blur of luminous fairylights, returning half a second later with a kitchen knife, then leaping gracefully into the air, and hovering next to the tree as she slit it free from the net that bound it. She pulled the netting away, and dropped to the ground to admire the leafy green monster with a contented smile. (I was thinking about all the horrible little common spiders that were no doubt lurking in the depths of that ungodly tree – cannibalism was clearly going to become a regular festive occurrence; one has to keep up household standards somehow!)

Eden slunk up behind Kate, removed a string of pink tinsel from his neck, and wound it around hers, until she turned around, laughing, and kissed him. Clara was already opening boxes of lights and decorations, then zipping like a gravity-defying rocket around and around the tree, draping it in golden lights as she levitated, followed by Rob, who was stringing the tree with multicoloured lights that appeared to be shaped like tiny penises. Samuel sighed, shook his head, and silently began hanging various glimmering baubles around the tree, just as the dogs, who had been lurking nervously in the corner, ventured forth to investigate this strange new entity that had invaded their home. Heisenberg-the-Sod took a shifty peek around the room, shuffled closer to the tree, and raised one hind leg, immediately prior to Eden breaking away from Kate and launching himself at the dog, howling,


Sod vanished beneath the fronds of the tree, but Eden, undeterred, simply dived after him, and went slithering head-first across the wooden floor, until only the spiked toes of his New Rocks and a few trailing strands of tinsel were visible. After a moment he wriggled out backwards, covered in pine needles, dragging Sod by the collar, and informing the dog in a severe mutter that, “If I have to spend one more December dwelling amidst the reek of your festering PISS, you repugnant and sinister little monstrosity, I am going to mindfuck a veterinary nurse to install a catheter in your pisshole for the entire duration of Christmas, because I have had dogs for 196 years, and NEVER, NEVER in two fucking CENTURIES, have I met a canine as DELIBERATELY OBJECTIONABLE as YOU!”

Sod blinked his mismatched eyes, and sneezed in Eden’s face.

“Oh, fuck you to the moon and back, you vulgar little entity…” Eden muttered, releasing the dog, and wiping his face with a grimace, then attempting to dust the pine needles out of his tattered black sweater. Kate just laughed, and gave her unsightly hound a hug. Eden’s own dog, the enormous but rather cowardly black Pudding, was still tentatively examining the Christmas tree, finally letting out an anxious whine, and slinking away to curl up next to the fire.

“Right,” said Rob, dusting mud and pine needles off his black jeans, “Tree’s up, lights are on, Eden’s had his obligatory bitchfit, Sod’s nearly electrocuted himself by pissing straight into the mains socket – I think it’s about time Kate put some really shitty music on, and we finished this fucking coke. And someone sort the fire out, for fuck’s sake, the dogs are shivering!”

Samuel set about stoking the fire, Rob dumping cocaine all over the Canterbury Tales, Eden sitting down eagerly next to him, while complaining,

“We really should get another servant, Samuel – I hate having to do my own fires, it’s so painfully low rent!”

“I like doing the fires,” Kate pointed out, sitting down next to him. “I grew up with radiators; this house will never stop being a demented trip to me, but…I have to agree, it would be amazing to wake up in a room that isn’t so cold I can see the dogs’ breath steaming. I know I’m the only one of us who grew up with central heating, and I know it would be blasphemy to stick ugly great radiators all over this place, but…seriously, waking up warm is something I really, really miss… Having someone to keep the fires lit all the time, would be a really good Christmas present, Samuel…”

“Agreed,” said Rob. “And I solemnly swear not to eat this one.”

I solemnly swear,” Kate added, “To set ground rules so I don’t accidentally lose my shit and cause their aorta to spontaneously rupture, because they’d just walked in on us shagging, that stupid bastard wandering about the place with his headphones on…which I’ve apologised for at least five times now, so…please, Samuel? Someone to keep the house from feeling like the goddamn arctic this winter?”

“If I can get these promises in writing,” Samuel replied, smiling slightly, “and can locate a staff member with a deeply unsavoury past, who would be no great loss if an accident should occur, then I think it could be arranged.” He accepted the first line of snowy  white cocaine, then shot to his feet, materialising next to the speaker system with a speed of movement that both startled me, and made me smile – if Eden ever tries to stomp on me again, he will find himself hurled halfway to Italy before he can get anywhere close! Samuel outstrips all of them in speed and strength, and Samuel is my friend. Ally to well-read arachnids, he is the ultimate gentleman of taste…

Using his phone, Samuel started up an album of Christmas carols, and Rob groaned,

“What the actual rolling fuck is this shit?! Put on the Dropkick Murphys for god’s sake, if we have to Do Christmas Audio-Dysentery as well as the bloody tree!”

I rolled my multiple eyes – Robert is the ultimate pauper of bad taste! Samuel sat back down, and replied,

“Might I suggest a vote? Who agrees with elegantly festive carols?”

Kate’s hand shot into the air – “I want festive, and I don’t want bloody Slade and Cliff Richards – I’ve accidentally murdered at least two retail workers in December due to that aural shit-stew pumping out of every mall speaker for a straight month…”

Samuel inclined his head with a smile, and began pouring glasses of bloodwine. Eden gave Rob a shifty sideways glance, then raised his hand, smirking slightly.

“Oh what the fuck?!” Rob exploded, “Since when does Lord Muck the ooohh, aren’t I DEMONIC demon, like Christmas carols?! Are you going mental again? Do I need to lock you in The Cage?”

Eden shuddered slightly at the mention of the cage, grabbing Rob’s bottle of bourbon and taking several medicinal gulps before replying,

“Kate likes Christmas. And she gets so excited by it, sometimes it makes me feel old and jaded and bleak and redundant. But carols remind me of my youth. They remind me that I wasn’t always ancient. The early bits of my youth, when my mother was still alive, and she wasn’t…well, I mean, she was mad, but she wasn’t completely insane yet, and she gave me spoonfuls of opium tincture every time I was annoying, so that means I have some very good memories attached to Christmas carols. Sitting in church, six years old, doped off my tiny face, watching all the golden cherubs sparkle, and the artwork in the stained glass windows glowing so beautifully, and the singing of the choir was so transcendent…” He smiled, his brown-flecked green eyes glazed, distant, then he appeared to snap back to the present, saying thoughtfully, “You know, I could nearly have become as much of a Bible-thumping god-botherer as my mother, at times like that. I really do recommend feeding your children dangerously high quantities of pharmaceutically pure opiates when you take them to church, if you wish to convert them – it’s far more spiritual…”

Samuel raised his hand, smiling slightly. “Three to two then. Carols it is!”

Rob shook his head in despair, and dumped out another massive heap of horrible white powder on the book in front of him. He leaned down to suck a good portion of it into his right nostril, before stating, “If it’s fucking carols, then I’m getting royally fucked. It’s the only way to stay sane around you demented people. I mean, Jesus, Eden, with your name, and you know exactly which part of your name to which I refer, how can you possibly deal with Baby Je—”

“SHUT UP!” Eden shrieked, spidery white fingers clutching at his chaotic black hair, eyes wide with horror, “SHUT UP! Don’t SAY IT! Do not MENTION my MIDDLE FUCKING NAME and the years of irreversible childhood trauma I suffered due to my mother emerging from the agonies and drugs of my birth, only to look down upon my face, my face, which I cannot HELP being so BEAUTIFUL that she felt I could ONLY be the reborn LORD, and that was it, she was off, no one could stop her – apparently she wasn’t exactly the picture of mental health even prior to me, but once she became convinced she’d just reborn the Son of God, and he was ME, I…you…” He stuttered into silence, shaking his head in horror, and finally concluding, “You cannot even conceive of what it was LIKE! And now, Robert, now that it’s 196 FUCKING years later, and my mother is dead, and my entire family are dead, and everyone who knows my middle name is dead, apart from you, I would REALLY FUCKING APPRECIATE IT IF YOU DIDN’T STIR UP MY CHILDHOOD TRAUMA FOR WARPED KICKS AND THEN MOCK ME FOR BEING A DEMENTED DEMON, WHO STILL CAN’T GET OVER HIS CHILDHOOD EVEN WHEN MULTIPLE CENTURIES HAVE PASSED!!!”

By the end of this outburst, he was storming back and forth across the room so fast he became a black blur – the curtains were flapping in the wind he was whipping up. Rob was quietly sniggering into his bourbon, until Eden darted across the room, snatched it out of his grip, downed a third of the bottle, slammed it back down on the table, and returned to the cocaine to ingest a large heap, all the while fixing Rob with a venomous green glare, his eyes shifting to the brighter, nearly luminous nuclear-waste shade I have learned happens when vampires are angry, or hungry…though the colour-shift is different for each of them. I persuaded Samuel to show me his once – he was the only vampire I had never seen lose his temper within the house. His eyes faded from their usual piercing, black-rimmed blue, to a strange incandescent violet – it was quite beautiful; I told him he should show it off more often, but Samuel simply laughed, and told me he was far too old to feel any need to wander about flashing his eyeballs like glitchy Christmas lights for the sake of intimidation…which is something I’ve noticed Rob does frequently, and Eden seems to do accidentally, and Kate doesn’t have perfect control over yet, meaning anybody irking her knows about it instantly. Which you might think would be embarrassing, but I happen to think is very practical. Irking Kate is never wise – there are many things she does not have perfect control over yet, being something  of a unique specimen amongst these vampires, with powers and capabilities that are never to be underestimated, and have, as she earlier alluded to, done away with not just one, but two servants, plus an extremely persistent doorstep Jehova’s Witness. It’s yet another reason that I like her so very much. She is certainly interesting to watch, from the comfort of one’s web, not just for her pale, spidery physique, but also for the strange things she gets up to beneath various phases of the moon, as she tries to work out what it all means, how it all works, being a one of a kind grey area of a being…

Below me, the cocaine was disappearing at an alarming rate, and an argument had broken out, regarding the carolling lyrics referring to following yonder star –

“But it makes no bloody sense!” Rob was insisting, aggressively slicing up lines of cocaine, “The whole wise men finding Mary and her god-spawn and the Holy Sheep all in their manger? You can follow a star in a direction, but all the Christmas stuff says the wise men knew they were in the right place because the star was…like, I don’t know, right on top of the fucking stable block or something! How does that happen? How is anything directly underneath a star, ever? How—”

“ALIENS!” Eden blurted out, rubbing his nose with one shaky hand, “The star was an alien spaceship that had actually landed on the inn! But it wasn’t very useful, was it? Not really, not at all, not to Mary and the poor old donkey waddling all the way across Jerusalem with a great big pregnant woman on his back, poor old donkey, nobody even knows his name – Santa’s reindeer all have names but what about the poor fucking donkey?! Nobody celebrates him – the Holy Donkey, Saint Ass – where would Mary have been without the donkey? I wonder if the donkey ever sired any baby donkeys – maybe there are donkeys alive today that are actually the direct descendants of the Holy Donkey – maybe donkeys celebrate Christmas too, with their own nativity legend, about the poor bloody Saint Ass who trekked miles and miles with some bloody human celebrity baby on his back, and now no one even remembers his name, so the whole Donkey Christmas Festival is about remembering how crass and ungrateful human beings are, and that is the sole reason that donkeys are stubborn!”

He nodded rapidly, several times, then leaned down to hoover up more coke, just before Rob forcibly removed it, whacking him over the head with his other hand, and pointing out,

“We were talking about the fucking star, DJ Trainwreck – did you actually have a relevant point here?”

Eden stared at him blankly, his eyes dilated into wide black orbs, then he blinked three times, and launched back into action, babbling,

“The STAR! Yes! The star – even with my professionally deduced working theory that it was an alien spaceship landing on the roof of the inn, everybody thinks it was a good, helpful, prophetic Jesus-celebrating star, don’t they? DON’T THEY?! But it wasn’t! If there was a star to follow to the place Jesus would be born, why didn’t it show Mary and Joseph and the Holy Donkey the way to an inn that actually had some rooms?! Maybe it knew…maybe it was all a plan…maybe the aliens had seen the future and they knew the nativity legend wouldn’t be artistic enough if Jesus was born in the stripy purple room of a Premier Inn; he had to have humble beginnings – everybody likes an underdog, everybody likes little baby sheep and the smell of straw, so the aliens led them to a shitty little stable, just so that people two thousand years later would have better looking Christmas cards than Jesus wrapped in a hotel towel with Joseph surreptitiously wanking in the background to pay per view pornography. Which he would be doing…because nobody gets any sex when their wife’s pregnant and has sore haemorrhoids from riding the Holy Donkey all day long. That’s the truth. That’s an eternal truth. But nobody wants sly wanking on the front of a Christmas card. Not really. Not at all. Not in my opinion.”

“Aaaand officially no more coke for Eden,” said Rob, grinning, “Though for the record, I think sleazy wank-featuring Christmas cards should be arranged for next year. And we will feature the Holy Donkey on them too, to give him some much needed recognition.”

Eden nodded his rapid approval. “Donkeys everywhere would thank you. You might become a donkey saint. The Patron Saint of Assmas. It’s a noble title.”

“But the star…” Kate said, frowning, “If the star was really sitting right on top of that town, maybe it was actually the reason there were no hotels with rooms! Think about it! The biggest star ever seen by mankind drops down out of the sky and lands on top of a little town, lights it up like a prehistoric Vegas? People are gonna come from far and wide to see that, aren’t they? Like, fuck me, look at that mad astrological spectacle going on over there, we’ve gotta get a closer look, sketch ourselves a selfie with the star! And that is why there were no beds! So, actually, the star was a fucking great inconvenience, wasn’t it! But more than that, the star…how did it know where to be? Was it psychic? Was it waiting over the inn already, for Mary to get there, or was the star more like a sinister homing device locked onto the foetal Jesus, and it’d been following Mary’s belly all the way across the desert? And if so, did the star appear when she first got pregnant, then grow and grow until it was HUGE and bright just at the moment of Jesus’s birth? And more than that, what happened to the star afterwards? It takes billions of years for the light of a dead star to wane and disappear, so where did the star go? Once the wise men had visited with all their random totally inappropriate-for-a-newborn gifts, did the star just sort of…explode, like a firework? Nobody talks about that, dude! It makes no sense! There are holes in the story!”

“Oh Jesus,” said Rob, laughing, “No more coke for Babyvamp either!”

“No,” said Clara, putting down her knitting and holding up a thoughtful finger, “Wait! She’s right…where did the star go? It must’ve gone pretty quickly, because what about Herod? He was really into his portents of doom, wasn’t he, going round slaughtering all the baby boys because of one mad prophecy, so…when he saw this giant crazy star in the sky, why wouldn’t he think, hot damn! That thing looks pretty portenty to me, better send some soldiers out to see if there’s something crazy going on, and if it’s a damn baby boy under that star, you chop him into little pieces before you can say DOOM BABY? It’s true, Rob! There are so many darn holes in this story!”

Rob was frowning thoughtfully. “I’m tempted to say ‘What the fuck do you expect from religious tosh’, but since I’m enjoying this mad discussion, I’ll pretend you’re not all too off your tits to interact with at all, and that this is all real and serious, because that, Clara, is a bloody good point! How did the star fuck off before it caused any trouble?! I mean, you’ve got a bloody great Jesus Beacon in the sky, like the fucking Batman signal, and even now, in the era of…well, I was about to say rational thinking, but given Trump and Brexit and climate change deniers, maybe not, but you know what I mean, you get it – even now, if a fucking great supernova bastard of a star parked itself over, say, Coventry, I’d damn well want to go and see what was under it, and I would be thinking about weird spooky magic – might be a leprechaun with a pot of gold or something down there! There would be millions of people out to grab that gold and take a steaming dump in the pot just so the person who got there next knew they’d been beaten! At least, that’d be my move, for sure…”

“Where the fuck did leprechauns come from?” Eden asked, rubbing his nose. “Did I miss that bit of the nativity story? Was I too high to remember that day at Sunday school?”

“They’re meant to be at the end of fucking rainbows, aren’t they? Who’s to say they haven’t branched out into stars as well!”

“Bad luck to shit in a leprechaun’s pot,” Eden said seriously, “I wouldn’t fuck with one of those – tiny Irish men  are a bit aggressive to say the least, even before they’ve been drafted to sit under a star for days on end with a pot of gold that half the country plans to steal then shit in. You’d have to be more cunning than that. There’s DNA in faeces these days, you know? Dangerous business, leaving shits about to prove a point now – didn’t used to be, but it’s a changing world, isn’t it, why do you think I use dog shit for my frequent acts of sinister retribution?”

“Frankly mate, I was under the impression that was mostly because dog shit stinks a lot worse, and using your own shit as a vampire’s a bit of a bloody rigmarole, deliberately going out and eating a great big unnecessary human meal then waiting for it to re-emerge; I thought you Poo Voodoo’d with dog shits out of, A, convenience, and B, super-stink, but you’re right, you’re right, there’s an option C here – goddamn DNA testing. Bloody difficult to make any kind of necessary point, now that anything you drench in piss or puke can be traced back to you. What a fucking world, eh?”

Samuel sighed. “How is it, that I put on a selection of cultured Christmas carols, and ended up with a discussion about the modern inconveniences of sending threatening boxes of vomit and/or feculence to unwitting and deeply unfortunate humans?”

“We’re too old to write to Santa,” Rob replied, grinning. “That means we have to discuss the joys of adult gifting in the festive season, but given the fact we don’t really have many friends outside this room, since humans are about as durable as a fucking mouldy cucumber, the only people we ever post parcels to are the ones who deserve a poo in the mail. Oh fuck…speaking of…I think Sod’s just left somebody a steaming fresh present under that tree…”

Everybody turned to look. Sod was scuttling away from a small dollop of shit, looking decidedly pleased with himself.

“Oh Christ I hate that dog!” Eden exclaimed. “I never thought I’d say those words as long as I lived – dogs are pure joy in a little furry coats, but that one is more fucking demonic than all of us put together! What did I ever do to deserve a literal fucking hellhound?!”

“Posting people boxes of shit,” Clara replied, smiling as her knitting needles clicked away. “For centuries on end. Either this is your punishment, or possibly the powers that be think you’re doing the Lord’s work, and thus they’ve provided you with a perpetual source of faeces in a conveniently small package…”

Eden scowled. “Maybe I should hover thirty feet above our house with a super-powered torch, see if any wise men appear, so I can tell them that the Son of God has been reborn as a bonk-eyed gremlin this time around, just to really test the faithful…and we aren’t faithful enough. Please fucking take him away, O wise ones!”

There was a whine from Pudding, who had been lying by the fire, but now scrambled up to plod across to Eden, laying his snout on Eden’s knees and giving him a Doleful Expression. Doleful Expressions are Pudding’s specialty, I have noted… Eden rolled his eyes, sighed, and grumbled,

“Yes, yes I know he’s your best and only friend, you’ve told me the entire story – everyone else at the pound was scared of you, no matter how much you tried to look less generally enormous, and everyone at the pound was scared of him because he’s legitimately fucking unhinged, and what followed was the most dysfunctional canine-memory montage of fond moments such as him trying to piss in your face but you being too big for his piss-pistol to reach, and you becoming the towering guardian inadvertently allowing him to wreak merry hell and never face a single consequence, and the single condition of you coming home with me was that he came too…and so it went: I am now saddled for the next seeming eternity with your evil minion. But you know what’s been playing on my mind lately?” he asked, addressing the dog directly. “I’m afraid to inform you, Dog, that big dogs do not live as long as small dogs. And that means, there is a high chance of you going on to the better place that I never get to go to because I’m undead and awful, whilst he remains here, on Earth, unfettered by you, to plague me unto shrieking madness, an—”

“Oh no!” Rob interjected, “Shrieking madness? You? Isn’t that just an average Wednesday?”

“Oh just FUCK OFF ROB! I’m having a serious discussion with my dog here! What I was saying, Dog, is that you need to step on his head on a regular basis, until he learns some basic decency or at least to cease shitting under the fucking Christmas tree five minutes after we’ve erected it and I can LITERALLY SMELL IT FROM HERE, because one day you will be gone, and I will be free to advertise him online the following Christmas as a genuine Gremlin-haunted item. Do you understand me?”

Pudding’s eyes rolled anxiously towards Sod, and his teeth chattered together. Then, he turned away, loped across the room, and sat directly and pointedly on top of the tiny scruffy dog until a fight broke out, settled only when Pudding let out the booming, slavering growl-bark it took Eden four straight weeks to train him into using. Sod turned into an immediate flattened pancake of motheaten regret, and Eden smiled. Kate, however, scowled, and went to comfort her unruly hound.

“Pick up that shit, would you,” said Rob, “While you’re over there. It’s got to be a bad omen or something, the first gift under the tree being a dog crap. Like an portent of poverty or something…”

Poverty!” Eden repeated, scandalised. “Do you SEE what that dog is bringing upon me?! I can’t be poor! I don’t have the constitution to be poor! There they go! All my ancestors, spinning in their graves like vinyl discs at the very notion of it!”

“Ahhh,” said Rob, “I think I remember this tune. I think I remember you singing it at your father’s club in about 1847, accompanied by a lot of flinging yourself on the ground at his feet, then segueing effortlessly from prostrate begging to screeched death threats, until the guards dragged you and tossed you headfirst in the gutt—”

“ROBERT!! We are not having that conversation while Kate is in the room, or preferably ever! My god, I always get so fucking sentimental about you – ooh isn’t it nice not having to do immortality alone, Rob’s known me forever and ever, and no matter how much metal he stuffs through his face or how much he mutilates his hair, there is a face in my life that isn’t terrifying and new, and somebody will always remember getting pissed up on Mariani’s Coca Wine while I was still a human being, and what a GIFT for a VAMPIRE to POSSESS, but I tell you what, you bumbag, I tell you FUCKING WHAT, you are frequently a ‘gift’ I would like to return, because all you do is loiter about reminding me of all the embarrassing things I’ve ever done since the AGE OF SIX!!!”

“Oh, come on – I’d say that’s a bit of an overstatement! There’ve been far too many embarrassing moments in the Life of Garden Boy for me to remind you of even half of them…but I’ve got time. I’ve got forever. And right now, it’s Christmas – doesn’t that bring back memories? It was the same year, wasn’t it, 1847, that you got so drunk at your sister’s place you vomited directly into the crib, with the baby flailing about dripping with regurgitated raisins and bits of—”

He was cut off by Eden launching across the room like a black-clad missile, eyes burning toxic green, and punching him repeatedly in the ear. Rob retaliated by grabbing Eden’s hair, and spitting in his eye, receiving a knee to the bollocks for his trouble. There was a whoosh of air, and Samuel was dragging them apart, then thrusting them with a little more force than strictly necessary into their respective chairs.

“No more drugs for anybody,” he said sternly, picking up the powdered remains atop the Canterbury Tales. “I’m taking it away, for safe keeping. And don’t expect it back – I have business to attend to. Everybody behave yourselves, or you will be spending December in separate tents scattered across the hills, damp and freezing and poor!

He began striding towards the door, then his gaze flicked up to meet mine, and he gave me the most fleeting raise of the eyebrows. I smiled a spidery smile, and abandoned my listening post, scampering up the wall and into the hole in the corner, which took me up through the dust and cobwebs, along the pipe-lines to a hole in the corner of Samuel’s bedroom. I had just made it onto his desk when the door opened, and he greeted me warmly, opened up a Word file for my necessary communications, and enquired as to whether I’d ever tried cocaine before.

That night was to be one hell of an evening, so much so, in fact, that it has taken me twenty whole days to recover, and thus to post this entry. But here it is, and therefore…

…here I am. Hello, Eden, my boot-happy vampiric nemesis – as you can see, I am still very much alive, and should you attempt to maim a single one of my eight long and furry limbs, you shall find yourself heftily dealt with.

Muahahahaha…as I believe they say.

Yours, rather smugly,

Lord Berty of Arachnid Manor. Who, as it turns out, rather does like cocaine. My webs were so very artistic that night – I couldn’t stay still, I weaved an entire impressionistic Mona Lisa As A Spider portrait right across Samuel’s computer screen. He said it was beautiful, and that he would confiscate Rob’s coke more often. As such, Robert, I bid thee a miserable festive season with thy drugs disappearing every five minutes.


And to everybody out there cursed with a mere four sad little limbs, may you have an acceptably jolly Christmas. Now I have three more vulgar little ill-mannered common arachnids tied up like juicy gifts behind my favourite oil painting, so I bid thee goodnight, and leave you with the wise advice that it is always favourable to eat one’s lessers. I hear the Tory party got in again, whilst I was coked off my face. Deeply unfortunate…I discovered the news when Kate inadvertently caused three windows to spontaneously explode. So, when Brexit causes food shortages in the New Year, perhaps you should begin eating the Tory voters.

Just a helpful idea, from your friendly spider of seasonal good taste.

Toodle and pip, and a very merry Christmas to all, up to and including all descendants of Saint Ass the Holy Donkey 🙂

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What Did You DO To My Halloween?!

Dear humans of this grey and bitter land, this is Eden (yes, yes, I know, you haven’t seen me in nearly a year, dear god, man – I’m immortal, ‘nearly a year’ passes by in the fluttering of a sheep’s flatulence; whenever I attempt to keep mortal friends these days, I find myself popping round one evening with a bottle of bourbon and a bag of cocaine, only to find that twenty years have passed and they’ve transformed into a lardy, half-bald, jowly abomination, mouldering away on the couch whilst their teenage daughter attempts to flirt with me. Disconcerting in the extreme, I think you will agree… So, there we go, don’t you piss at me for being gone ‘nearly a year’ – think yourself lucky I’m making myself available whilst you’re still young enough to read this blog without a gigantic magnifying glass pressed to your cloudy greying eyeball, you temporary, wilting spinach of a being!) – anyway, tonight I would dislike to tell you about something that happened to me last week! It is presently October – a month that I particularly like. Cold and crunchy and orangey-red; a month for Type O Negative CDs in the Lotus, my immortal arse cradled in the strangely sexual embrace of my heated leather buttwarming seat, whilst I go VROOMING around the country lanes with a gorgeous swirl of autumn-rainbow leaves whipping all about my tyres. A month for striding across chilly hilltops, the distant valleys and all those bleating, farting sheep veiled with glimmering mist, as I watch comically bundled-up humans grabbing their unruly child-spawn in terror as they witness the vast slavering demonic blackness of my gigantic hound Pudding coming over the hill…only to completely misjudge the situation, and fall prey instead to the tiny bonk-eyed gremlin that is my girlfriend’s dog, Heisenberg-the-Sod, who has a great penchant lately for pissing up children’s legs (a penchant, I confess, that I am somewhat encouraging…).

O, October! A month for coming in from those cheerful child-besmirching outings with cold air and woodsmoke lingering in our hair, muddy dog-feet going splattasplattasplat all over the clean floors Samuel just polished, to sit down in front of the fire with a mug of warm Type O, a great big joint, and perchance a lovely shot of autumnal golden-brown smack, followed by a wonderful fucking snooze in a cuddle-puddle of sheepskin rugs, Kate’s limbs, and the deep bass snoring of one contented Pudding, only interrupted by Sod occasionally waddling rudely across my fucking face, or probing my earhole with his horrible cold wet nose because I swear to god that dog has ADHD, or maybe he’s just as unholy as he looks – never trust anything that doesn’t appreciate a bloody good autumn snooze in front of a roaring fire!

So – do you see?! This is what I expect from October. And I like it very much! More than that, October rises like a rousing shag in the best booth of the Royal Albert Hall as the conductor below spanks Mozart into an ejaculatory frenzy (yes, alright, this is an overly detailed simile, I’m aware – I took Kate to the Proms this summer, in spite of her much-bemoaned hatred of classical music. Turns out she really is a bloody philistine about the whole thing – even Rob doesn’t generally spend as much time spying through tiny binoculars on well endowed female audience members, so, naturally, I had to salvage the outing somehow, and I really do recommend a rousing Mozart shag from a position where you can see everyone, but can they see you back? Who knows… That’s the beauty of it, *sly winkyface* 😉  And, as an added plus, I have since that night caught Kate slinking about the house listening to Mozart on her headphones. What a win! I have fucked her right into culture!) – BUT, AS I WAS SAYING, October RISES like a horny phoenix into the wondrous celebration of Halloween. Now, Kate and her lot have a few Serious Witchy Affairs to attend to ‘pon the night of Samhain, or so I was originally led to believe, until I made a sneaky midnight voyage to her grandmother’s cottage one year to see what they were actually up to, and it largely seemed to consist of getting pissed up, eating apple cake, and conversing via shiny witch pebbles with long-dead ancestors, at which point I beat a hasty retreat, because I do not need to be haunted by any more visions of doom, gloom and disaster by witches who continue to hate me even after they’ve died and rotted and I’ve done a lot of very good deeds for their great-great-great-etc grand-spawn! But anyway – I fucking digress! Kate has her drunken ancestral sniggerings to deal with for an hour or two on Halloween, but otherwise, we are at liberty to enjoy the one week of the year where striding around town in my moth-eaten Victorian top-hat with blood smeared all over my t-shirt isn’t seen as suspicious and murdery – it’s merely in the spirit of the season!

So of course I love October! One barely has to bother tidying away the bodies, in October – just leave them strewn all about the city, in chunks if possible – it’ll be hours before anyone bothers to notice they’re not just interesting props! And in October, if you hear loud music playing in a house, people drinking and smoking outside, you can stride straight up to the front door, and announce “I AM A FIENDISH VAMPIRE, AND I’M HERE TO EAT THE LOT OF YOU!” and do you know, they’ll just slap you on the back, say “Nice one, mate!” and let you directly inside to do exactly what you just forewarned them you would! What a wonderful time to be more-or-less alive!

But the thing is…the thing that I have crawled out of my seasonal dope-coma and dusted off this blog to tell you, is that THIS Halloween, is…somewhat different. And it is deeply disconcerting to me!


Are you really going to make me spell it out?

It’s the dreaded B-word. No, not botulism, or bubonic plague, or bum-grapes – far worse.


I mean, I’ve known for ages, of course I have, just like the rest of you, that they’d gone and walloped the fucking thing on ALL HALLOW’S EVE, and dear lord, if you think I was disgusted, if you think you were disgusted, you should’ve heard Kate’s Gran. At this point I genuinely pity all those witchy ancestors who’ll be jerked out of their eternal rest on Halloween just to get an earful of drunken ranting OAP, furiously spitting cake crumbs into their ectoplasmic faces, but anyway, anyway, that isn’t my point, my point, as usual, is ABOUT  ME!

It’s October! The nights are dark and sparkling with sinister stars; gloomy atmospheric mists twirl in dubious corners and warp the hollowed faces of the derelicts gibbering in city doorways; the night of All Hallow’s Eve looms down upon us, with promises of demons and ghouls and UNHOLY BLOODBATHS, and amidst this EVOCATIVE DARKNESS, stand I, Eden Grey, a one hundred and ninety-seven year old vampire – DEMON AMONGST DEMONS, OVERLORD OF ALL THAT CURDLES THY MORTAL BLOOD! I come to FUCK and DEVOUR! I come to BEHEAD and SHOOT SMACK! I – am not – to be TRIFLED WITH!

Is that enough? Have I set the scene yet? October…Halloween…dark and misty, murky and lurky, and I, an ACTUAL VAMPIRE, ready to rip out ACTUAL THROATS amidst the plastic spiders and sticky fake blood, ready to gulp down several pints of your vital fluids and leave you choking and spluttering on the cold wet tarmac as small children point and laugh and parents say “Wowee, Charlie, isn’t that one realistic!”? “Chkkhhh…he…lp…meee…!!” you wheeze and splutter, but they just start applauding, and from the rooftops above, we watch your pitiful demise, then whoosh away into the sparkling blackness to fuck until dawn, high off our tits on your fresh hot blood.

That  is what October should be like. It’s what I expect from October, and what I thoroughly fucking look forward to, all year long!

But do you know, do you BLOODY WELL KNOW, what happened to me instead, last week?!

I swept down like an AVENGING GOD from the rooftops, all ready to empty the veins of a stressed-looking bloke with a briefcase, but instead of shrieking or pissing himself or swooning in mortal dread, he just sort of…looked at me, with this ghastly expression of resigned relief, and then, in his thoughts, I heard – “Thank god for that. I’m not going to be around to see it.” I didn’t even have to ask what ‘it’ was – it was all there, in his thoughts. He had a diabetic son, Type 1, insulin dependent, and he’d been living in terror all year of the Bloody Brexit B-Word, and the near-certainty of medication shortages, and the fact he’d already witnessed his own son being hauled off to hospital in a coma when he was younger and they’d buggered up his medication, and that event had haunted him forever after, endless tumbling nightmares about his dying son, and now the fucking government, run by one loathsome, unelected albino TURNIP with no fucking parliamentary majority whatsoever, was dragging the entire nation into a shitshow of rolling blackouts, martial law, sewage overflows, bankruptcy and soaring debt and plummeting economic strength, and the blue-grey face of his dying son had become the mirage that floated in front of his reddened eyes night and day, until through that mirage came ME, a swooping hungry vampire ready to snuff out his mortal existence, and all he had to say was ‘Thank god. I won’t be around to see it.’

Do you know what happened next?

Well. I might be sinister and fiendish and UTTERLY DEMONIC, but I am not entirely dead inside! I may have the vampiric capabilities and earthly wealth to escape this revolting grey rock in the event of No Deal, but I am ALSO an ENGLISHMAN who was born into the reeking streets of London CENTURIES before that aforementioned ALBINO TURNIP came along and FUCKED IT ALL UP BEYOND FUCKING RECOGNITION, and as a result…well. I couldn’t just eat that unfortunate chap, could I?

We ended up in the pub. I ended up consoling my sodding meal, and promising him that if it all went truly tits up, I would personally fly to the continent to fetch his offspring some insulin. Now, before you start thinking I’ve GONE SOFT, before you start UNDERESTIMATING my DARK AND DEMONIC PROWESS, let it be known that everything has its price, and a Type 1 diabetic is a thing of great value to the discerning vampire. Particularly at a time when that diabetic has no insulin, and thus his or her blood sugar levels are sky high, and…well, isn’t it obvious? Everybody likes dessert, don’t they? Even the undead. His son was thirteen years old, thus quite big enough to provide me with a nice pint of syrupy claret for the blood-slurping connoisseur, and I happen to think that’s well worth a little jaunt across the Channel.

But nonetheless! Nonethefuckingless – a vampire, having to console his own meal? In October? What the BOLLOCKS has this world come to?!!

And now, today, the folded-papery-depression-sheet landed upon my doormat, informing me that parliament has written to the EU, requesting a Brexit extension, but that the unelected turnip-in-charge has also written to the EU, asking that they please decline the wishes of the country, and the parliament he supposedly represents, because he is still hellbent on delivering the worst possible outcome for the entire nation even if he has to break the law to do it, sparking a domino-fall of the United Kingdom fracturing into angry little states, all Great British industries going bust, the Pound becoming the most worthless currency on Earth, the NHS wheezing its last, and all the rest of the delightful smorgasbord-pickings of Brexit Clusterfuckery, rather like a small petulant boy who’s just discovered the power of the word ‘NO!’ and is now bellowing it at every opportunity – ‘Do you want a bath?’ ‘NO!’ ‘Do you want to go to bed?’ ‘NO!’ ‘Do you want to remain alive?’ ‘NO!’ ‘Do you mind if I sever your testes and force you to eat them?’ ‘NO!’

‘I’D RATHER BE DEAD IN A DITCH!’ bellows the gammon-fisted majority-free turnip.

At this point, it seems rather likely that the extension will be granted, and Halloween won’t be Brexit Hell-Unleashed Day forever and ever after all. Does that wild and reckless statement above, regarding rigor mortis in a cold puddle at the side of the road, now count as a prophecy? Enough, perchance, that a deeply sinister vampire might be able to whoosh through the window of 10 Downing Street like an evil green-eyed breeze of malice to leave that corpulent flaxen-haired windbag rotting in precisely the ditch it asked for? I mean…for entertainment value alone, it would be an enjoyable night. How long, do you think, would it take, for the passing humans to realise that the amusing and satirical Halloween prop of a bloodless beheaded Boris in a ditch was actually…well, a bloodless beheaded Boris in a ditch?

I don’t know, but the betting starts at three hours.

Have a happy Halloween – I know I will… *devilish winkyface* 😉


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Christmas, On The Edge of Doom

Hello humans…

It’s that time of year again. That season of pudding-induced obesity, rumbling sprouty flatulence and children’s mass confusion regarding the rather dull deity-in-a-manager, versus the far more tangible, exciting deity that wears a red hat, welcomes your prayers, & squeezes its big fat belly down chimneys all in the name of your materialistic pleasure. To be honest, I rather wish Santa Claus had been such a thing when I was a child, back in the 1820s. In those days he was more akin to your modern Tooth Fairy; a sort of flimsy old wives tale of a being, who would fill one of your completely undecorative socks with a satsuma, a couple of walnuts, and if you were lucky, a wooden toy – in my case, this toy was preferably in the shape of a horse, or a particularly attractive dog. But anyway, anyway – all Father Christmas meant to my small, awkward child self was the nostalgic smell of orange peel, opened in bed at dawn; pleasant enough, but not worthy of the pants-pissing excitement he seems to invoke in children today.

It is undeniably amusing, watching Christian parents try to sell their offspring on the nativity legend, about an unremarkable pregnant lady (and how are these children to understand the virgin miracle, at their age? I wonder how many ill-timed Dreaded Sex Talks have been had with tiny children, all because of the Virgin Mary. Mummy, how did Mary have a baby with God, without even knowing about it? I thought a man and a lady had to love each other veeeerrryyy much, and do lots of cuddling before a baby could happen! Well, Susie, of course Mary and God loved each other very much – God loves us all! But Mummyyyy, if I love God, won’t I get pregnant too?! – note to self, never end up in any situation that involves explaining Christmas to children. Bound to fuck it up horribly), and this pregnant lady is riding a donkey (not a Lamborghini, or a robot, or a fire-breathing dragon, or anything else that would actually interest a child. Somebody really needs to employ me – at great expense, for genius is not cheap – to jazz up this whole nativity business. As a story, it really has wasted modern potential…), then she stays at the WORST hotel in the city, long before she can even give it a terrible Yelp review! The baby is born, miraculously bereft of infant or maternal death, considering the times, and three star-gazing oddballs show up to provide three gifts, each of which is astoundingly useless to a newborn child or its mother (I mean, gosh, wasn’t Mary polite about it all? The modern woman, just moments after the traumas of birth, would probably scream in wholly-justified protest that what they really needed was nappies, and a sterilising kit, and a breast pump, and a collapsible pushchair, and a new washing machine, and some intellectually stimulating soft toys, or at the VERY fucking least a second donkey to ride home on – I mean, bloody hell, a whacking great lump of gold?! How in fuck’s name are they supposed to transport the thing home? Oh, do stop whinging, Jesus, I know you’re swaddled up with a rock crushing your legs, but it really is the only place to put it! Impractical, wise men. Wise women would no doubt do a wiser job…), and then this baby grows up to die a grisly, appalling death, followed by becoming a friendly, benevolent sort of zombie, but we won’t focus on those potentially interesting elements, nooo, it’s all about the donkey and the stable and the three weird gifts.

So…there you are, trying to sell your eager little crotchfruit on this somewhat threadbare myth, while all around you…

Santa Claus is coming to town! SANTA CLAUS, the Coca-Cola drinking, mince pie munching jolly fat man, who has a team of FLYING FUCKING REINDEER (why didn’t God give any of those to Mary, for Christ’s – literal – sake?! What a cheapskate! I bet he didn’t even pay child support to the poor woman, and the whole thing really did border rather unnervingly on rape, when you think about it!) – Santa lives at the NORTH POLE, where it’s SNOWY and MAGICAL, not that nasty old sandy boring Jerusalem, and all he lives for is giving kids what they want, with increasing decadence as the years go by! What did Jesus do for us?  kids must ask, petulantly – What did Jesus do, compared to SANTA? only to be told, HE DIED FOR YOUR SINS, LITTLE BOBBY, HE DIED FOR YOUR SINS! Well. Gosh. That’s not the sort of thing that makes a person feel seasonally merry, is it? Makes you writhe with guilt! It’s an awkward feeling. Unnerving. I mean, for starters, he committed this mad sin-death centuries before you were even born, so can you really be expected to feel grateful for something so presumptuous? What if I’d never sinned at all! What if I never do sin at all! It’s a bit like being told at school that just because someone (Rob, usually) wrote ‘MR GREENE SMELLS LIKE SHIT’ in big wobbly letters on the blackboard, you all have to run round and round the field in the pissing rain until you physically vomit, but AHA – BEHOLD! A saintly man comes along, and dies horribly for your sins, saving you from all that apocalyptic rain and puke, but placing upon you instead, a vast, eternal burden of guilt… Why should I have to berate myself for this man’s agonising death, when ROB was the only sinner amongst us?!

I’m sure children must feel that way. I mean, what sins have they even committed, at their age? Emotional neglect of last year’s teddy bear? Picking their nose and wiping it on the inside of the car windows? Spitting grapes at their sister? If someone has to go out and die for children’s pifflingly minor ‘sins’, then I truly dread to think what the next spawn-of-God will have to do about mine! But anyway, anyway, returning to the point, it’s all a bit baffling, isn’t it, this ChristSanta-BabyJesus-Reindeer-Pudding-mas, religion and gluttony and charitable thoughts and beribboned bankruptcy all squiggling about in a sort of mad, turkey-smeared orgy of obligatory familial tolerance and drunken merriment, the latter two often resulting in Accident and Emergency departments being run ragged with everything from fallen-off-the-roof-doing-fairylights catastrophes, to fingers severed in the midst of disembowelling the turkey, burns from flaming puddings, good old traditional family punch-ups, every drunken accident known to man, and of course, the rather disturbing spike in suicides, as all those people who don’t live in a Hallmark Christmas card begin to feel like the only humans on Earth who aren’t merry, or even loved. (The latter set, I was nearly a part of, long, long ago, as a depressed, drunken mortal, my life in pathetic shambles, my bride-to-be miserably dead while Rob got married a month later and was (temporarily) completely blissful. Fortunately, in my day you could just buy a nice legal bottle of opium tincture, drink up, and forget about the whole bastard affair. As such, I got very high indeed, and fiddled in a peaceful haze with my piano for hours on end – there was no television, of course, stuffed with cheesy uplifting Christmas films to rub salt in the wound… So I survived. On and on, into the grisly unknown. 2018 now. Still here! 195 years old… And things are really quite good. So there you go – don’t get topping yourself this Christmas, you might find yourself perfectly happy in another hundred and seventy-some years – it’s more or less worth the wait, isn’t it?)

So, you see, it is, as I think you will agree, a weird time of year…

This year in particular, feels very weird. Very divided. The calm before the storm…

This year, Kate has instilled in me more festive feelings than I generally experience, and it’s all because of our dogs. We’ve been exploring local towns with them, taking them on long night time walks, all in pursuit of the most lurid Christmas lights in England, and even I can’t hate those warm sparkling lights, jazzing up the dull, wet, winter world. In fact, we spent one night wandering our favourite patch of enthusiastically bedazzled housing, whilst tripping on 2-cb, this particular chemical chosen mainly for its brevity of action; three hours in wonderland, then you’re quite fit to drive home. And ohhhh, the colours! The sparkling rainbows amidst the darkness, a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear! The black silhouetted branches of stark winter trees, spread against the cloudy night sky; clutching skeletal fingers draped in the blossoming fruits of warm golden lights, bright stars plucked from the heavens, collected about this tree, this tree in particular, buzzing and swarming with the fat glowing bodies of a million drunken fairies – we stared and stared, we walked and stared, crashed into lampposts from all the staring, and it was a beautiful night. Our dogs, Sod and Pudding, tolerated us well enough, bedecked in their custom-made dog-jackets of purple and black crushed velvet, with fur accents – I am not one of these peculiar perverts who enjoys stuffing his unfortunate hound into all manner of undignified attire, treating the poor bastard like a petulant little girl’s Barbie doll, but Pudding is somewhat shorthaired (and, let’s be honest, a bit of a wimp), while Sod is merely rather small, so, coats there must be, and I do not do things by halves! And in this fashion, we meandered around the streets, high as a kite, marvelling over each sparkling house…until I began to feel festive.

It was a rather alien sensation. Usually the closest I get to festive is curling up by a crackling fire, and regaling myself with an eerie acappella rendition of I’m dreeeaming, of a broooown Christmaaaassss, whilst cooking up a super-strength shot of smack, and reclining in a lovely dope haze to smoke a joint and watch the flames dance, reflecting upon my state of perfect contentment…whilst utterly dreading interacting with Kate’s family in the morning.

But this Christmas, this year, I FEEL FESTIVE! We even bought our own fairylights, and strung them all around the room! Warm white and blue-purple were the colours we chose, and our room is a little magical haven now; I find that within it, I hate people rather less.

This year, I even enjoyed our brief visitation to Kate’s family, though the true Christmas began when we returned home to find Rob, Clara and Samuel joined by Frederick and Timmy, lounging about with the dogs, surrounded by bottles of blood-wine and a typically over-the-top Christmas feast, Samuel having foisted upon them all a Pudding Contest, pitting his own recipe against various brands, from which gluttonous raisin-coma we were saved by darkness falling. Out we went, into the chill of the evening, swallowing an ecstasy pill each – they were even festively stamped; little round red pills printed with a cheerful reindeer – apparently we were not alone in our debauched take on Christmas festivities. Surrounded by gambolling canines, we climbed the muddy moorlands to the peak of the wilderness in which we live, pausing only for Rob, and then – rather less characteristically – Timmy, to regurgitate seven different puddings as the drugs kicked in. Kate had received wireless speakers for Christmas, another one of those modern things that you never knew you needed, until you discover that for years you have been blind! Ohh, to wreak forth the raucous strains of the Dropkick Murphys, in the midst of this wintry, squelching blackness, Kate producing glowstick bracelets to wrap around each of us and the dogs to boot, that we might dance madly in the light of the full moon, which slipped eerily behind wisps of ragged fog, and all below us spread the valley, glittering in the mad rainbow shades of Christmas lights – it was entrancing!

As the drugs peaked, we left Samuel and Frederick with the dogs, as they had slipped into a silent, telepathic conversation about fuck knows what, and we stuffed the speakers into my tiny raver-twat rucksack, taking the music with us as we soared over that valley of sparkling, blurring, vibrating rainbows, and let me tell you, if you think dancing feels fucking lovely on a head-full of ecstasy, you really must try spinning mid-air cartwheels at two hundred miles an hour, watching the glittering lights of Christmas blur and streak until the moon and the darkness and the lurid Santa faces spin and fizzle as though you’ve crawled into the heart of a kaleidoscope, and you slow to a crawl, regaining your bearings, taking the hand of your favourite person in the world, while feeling your second favourite person in the world groping at your backpack. The music dies for a strange, silent second, only to be replaced by Elvis’s You Were Always On My Mind. I sparked up a joint, and we all just drifted, our eyes as wide and black as the sky above us, our neurons sparkling with a serotonin overload of festive euphoria, thoughts pouring out of my mouth in complete unfiltered honesty, as I rambled and wondered at how strange it was, how mad and beautiful, our utterly mismatched group – Rob and I, awake long beyond our bedtime, alive long after we should be sleeping as brittle dusty bones; Timmy and Clara, of a similar vintage, but born on different continents, and never, in the normal course of things, to have met, nor to have survived, one doomed to an icy ocean grave, the other most liken beaten to death and dumped in a gutter, but here they are, all odds defeated, and where would we be without them? And Kate, the youngest of us all, and so different, right from the start…

It was a night so similar to the one on which we first met, bar, of course, my cocaine-fuelled, frothingly paranoid attempt at tearing her head off, and the nearly fatal surprise of discovering Kate was not so easily disposed of…and thank Christ for that. But anyway, it was strange and beautiful, our Christmas Day, twixt silvery moon and sparkling Earth, returning home with my family and my dogs to smoke prodigious quantities of NYC Diesel, while we talked and talked over the top of trashy Christmas TV, the fire crackling in the hearth, until finally I retired with Kate to sit in our vast bathtub, filled with wonderfully sinister black glittering water, courtesy of her eternal bathbomb fetish, and the warm water and mutual nudity descended into delicious rudeness, and we fucked the sun right back into the sky. It was, indeed, a Happy Fucking Christmas!

But now…it’s all over. The turkey is eaten, the crackers are pulled; one can’t ignore any longer the sullen, reeking spectre of Christmas Future…

Where will we all be, a year from now? Everything is about to change, suddenly, horribly, unpredictably, and the only thing that is certain is that dire times are ahead…

Brexit – it looms above us, as grey and pendulous and sullen as the shrivelled, hate-filled breasts of our democracy-throttling Prime Minister.

In the moment of Theresa’s ‘deal’ being booted out of parliament, all seemed to hope that this entire ghastly nonsense might just be cancelled, because quite frankly, whether you were for or against leaving in the first place, the whole thing has rather come to resemble one of those parties you agree to in the midst of some drunken, blurry, raucous midnight, yeah, yeah, a party at Dave’s for New Year’s Eve? I* think* I remember Dave, he’s an alright chap – why not? Let’s do it! You get the pills, I’ll get the acid, it’ll be a riot! …and then, in the days that follow, you wake in a cold sweat to recall that the Dave in question is not that surreal little chap who’s a prodigious psychonaut with a great panache for wryly comedic one-liners – nooo, we’re talking about the other Dave, that gigantic scowling bloke who becomes utterly unpredictable after his third pint, either turning murderously aggressive and more than a little racist, or insisting that you play Send In The Clowns on repeat while he sits in the middle of the floor weeping loudly and snottily about a breakup that happened fifteen years ago, as everyone eyes each other in tense silence, none daring to tell him that he’s pissed his jeans. And now you have agreed to go round to that Dave’s house, just the three of you, on a head-full of LSD, and even though you know you’re careening down the path to being traumatised for life, if not murdered, by a furious weeping fat man with piss in his pants, no one seems to know how to put the brakes on this singularly heinous plan! And THIS IS YOUR BREXIT! So why the fuck is Theresa FUCKING May so goddamn determined to steer this ship so wilfully into the rocky shores of oblivion, when, A, NOBODY FUCKING VOTED FOR HER, B, most of Parliament doesn’t even want her there, and C, the Brexit we are likely to end up with is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING LIKE the whimsical theoretical Brexit that was voted for by the most emaciated of majorities anyway?!


STOP IT???!!! cries Theresa, jowls quivering in tremulous fury, IT WOULD BE AGAINST THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE TO STOP NOW! But madam speaker, do you not think it might be a fairly good idea to just recheck the ‘will of the people’, before plunging us into a crisis that involves shortages of vital medication, a near-famine, motorways grinding to a total halt, the fucking ARMY launching into action, Britain ending up as a tiny, useless little island with no allies and no trade agreements, and EVERY OTHER ATTRACTION in Theresa May’s Funhouse of Clusterfucks?! I mean, Christ, is this woman even human? She seems like a robot who’s been given one singular goal, the achievement of Brexit, and she will stamp those spiked heels down into the bleeding eyes of a dead democracy until she DAMNED WELL ACHIEVES IT – facts and figures and common fucking sense just blink past her soulless robot eyes in a blur of data does not compute: return to prime objective: BREXIT AT ALL COSTS.

…actually, it sort of makes one wonder what’ll happen to the Maybot once it’s all over, and every British citizen is flailing about in raw sewage and desperation, tearing each other’s eyes out over the last tin of baked beans in the land, when pirate TV stations are beaming out broadcasts on how best to carve, season and cook the carcass of your dead diabetic relatives – the critically high sugar levels that killed them give the meat an unusually sweet taste, lending itself to interesting seasoning choices; cranberry sauce would be most excellent, but of course we don’t have food in our shops anymore – you’ll have to make do with a chutney of deadly nightshade berries; after all, this isn’t a world one wishes to live in; the best meal one can possibly prepare for all the family is a meal that kills instantly – so much more dignified than dying breath by agonising, rattling breath, outside a boarded up hospital bereft of staff or medicine. And at this point, Brexit goal achieved, will the Maybot have collapsed into a steaming pile of whirring cogs? Or will her robot status be shockingly revealed by a well-deserved assassination attempt, carried out by an NHS consultant fresh from a 24 hour shift jam-packed with delivering the repeated message to families that their deceased loved ones would have been quite alright, in the days prior to the fucking Tory party. He heroically knifes her in the gut, but all that happens is a booming, grinding HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! belching from her mealy mouth, her dead-pig eyes whirling, steam pouring from her ears, before she reaches out hands like creaking steel girders, and tears him into gory, dripping shreds, shrieking again and again, BREXIT IS THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE! I WAS BUILT FROM THE SCRAP METAL OF THE BREXIT BUS, AND I SHALL CARRY ON ITS LEGACY FOREVER!

Who knows. Who knows anything… Does anybody dare make New Year’s resolutions, this year? Does anyone dare plan anything? Even speaking as myself, a 195 year old immortal with the monetary means to escape this rotten rock for as long as necessary, where would I even go? We’ve lived for long periods in the States before, but Jesus…even laying aside the difficulties of being ruled over by a demented, dictator-fellating President who announces his new, barely-legal government policies via badly-spelled, expletive riddled tweets like some obese, angsty thirteen year old with an IQ deficit and a God complex, there’s the more immediately concerning fact that America seems to be perpetually ON FIRE of late! Climate change deniers running all over the place, even as flames consume half of California in the middle of November, citizens wheezing through face masks as they survey the charred nothingness that used to be their home – I must say, as a living situation, somehow this does not appeal! Almost every country in Europe seems to be in the grip of extremist movements rioting and looting and preaching hate, terrorists in pedestrian-flattening vans are becoming such a common occurrence they barely make front page news, and there is an undeniable sense that a terrible darkness is brewing…

So, enjoy your Christmas break. Eat, drink, get high, and make merry. For nobody knows what shape the next year will take…

Yours, rather unnerved, but comforted greatly by a steaming bowl of Christmas pudding, the sight of Kate’s naked backside as she tries on a stack of new clothes, and the wrap of heroin sitting on the desk before me like a scrunched Rizla ball of hope and salvation,

Eden the ETERNALLY SINISTER! (…even whilst wearing a hideous tissue cracker crown, and scowling in fiery loathing at the Demon Sprouts placed unbidden upon his plate!)

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The Pervy Halloween Write-Off…

Alright mortals, it’s Captain Rob here, with that time again – the most wonderful tiiime of the yeeeeaaar! I’m joined by DJ Smackhead, aka DoomBoy, aka the Face That Launched a Thousand Suicides, aka Eden, if you want to be boring about it, and we are here to craft a Halloween Tale to ruin the cockles of your arse! Now, nobody should ever write sober, that’s the kind of downright indecency that brought us classic snores like Jane Eyre, and wheezing wind-up-toy characters like Tiny Tim, farting out moral lectures until they run out of cliché batteries and have to die a tragic death. So, you don’t write sober. You just fucking don’t. Especially not when your co-pilot’s Eden – I know I shouldn’t say this about someone with a bit of a drug problem, but Eden sober? Jesus he freaks me out, it’s like I’ve landed in a parallel universe where he’s learned to use a hairbrush and taken a sudden interest in cleaning the fridge, until the façade of sanity explodes and he loses his shit completely. I’m not having that mentally unstable nonsense on my world class writing team! So, w—

E – I’m not mentally unstable sober, I’m just overcome!  Whelmed beyond whelming limits. Was the world always like this, I wonder, in a daze of tumbling horror? I can go months, years if I’m lucky, without seeing the world in the nuclear glare of scalding sobriety…until it happens. I get stuck in traffic on the motorway, my lighter runs out of fuel, the driving whiskey has been drunk by you, and everything sort of…changes colour. I enter the event horizon of a dark and sinister sobriety trip, and it’s a trip that might never end. What if you never come down? What if I never ever fucking COME DOWN? What if it’s like this FOREVER?!!! Sobriety…the final frontier. I suddenly notice that there’s something gritty in my shoe, and I wonder if it’s a spider, it’s probably a spider, rolling around under my heel with all its legs falling off and its horrible spidery teeth munching holes in my sock. I notice that the car smells like spilled A Positive and stale smoke and, inexplicably, marshmallows. Does the world always smell this bad? Bad smells, seeping into my hair. Permeating me. Sodomising my pores. Faggy the Bleeding Marshmallow Boy, they’ll call me… The cars in front aren’t moving. They AREN’T FUCKING MOVING, and how dare they be here, in my way, all these noxious little humans a fraction of my age, breeding and BREEDING AND BREEDING and scuttling all over the place building Starbucks and McMansions and hipster pubs with ironic Yorkshire puddings served in a coal scuttle – why didn’t I kill more people when I was younger?! If I’d just killed more people, even one extra a week, think how many parents I could have murdered, how many of these noxious little humans would never have even have become a sperm! I should murder more people. It’s the only solution. It’s me against the world, ME AGAINST CLIMATE CHANGE and the destruction of the BEES, I stand alone, an uncelebrated superhero, Global Saviour Boy – need to work on that name though – the only one who SEES THE TRUTH! But…will I get terribly fat, if I try to eat my way right through human overpopulation? It’s a big job… I’ve never met an obese vampire, but I bet no vampire’s ever tried to eat several billion people before, either. I suppose I don’t really have to EAT all of them – there are other ways to commit ecologically sound massacres, after all… But I can’t think about that forever, so I fiddle with the radio, in case it can tell me WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING AHEAD OF ME, and WHEN I MIGHT START MOVING, but I’m bombarded with slimy, patronising radio presenters with their slippery Cliff Richards voices like they gargle goldfish for breakfast, and they’ll either be playing songs that I’ve despised for decades, or songs that I’ve never heard before but hate so intensely my loathing could eclipse the sun, and then the news starts playing and there’s nothing but doom, and doom, DOOM and frustration and rapist senators and Trump’s latest moronic tweets and unending forecasts of economic implosion, and that is the point at which I manoeuvre aggressively onto the hard shoulder, flee my vehicle, run wildly into the fields, launch into the DARKENED SKIES and fly home in a frothing panic to inject every drug I can find!

So, to return to the point, sobriety does not make me unstable, Rob. I’m merely allergic to it. Would you call a man dying tragically of anaphylactic shock after an ill-fated peanut butter sandwich mentally unstable?

R – If he’s running across the motorway smeared in peanuts turning bright red and howling about the fact that Miley Cyrus would never have been born if he’d only tracked down her great grandparents in a prohibition tavern and eaten them in a heroic bid to save the world from an oncoming marshmallow apocalypse, then yeah, I’d probably call him a nutter. But anyway, now you’ve used up half our word count with that completely pointless monologue, what I was saying is that nobody writes sober. So, in the name of good taste and decent literature, I’m going to chug half this bottle of Jack before we start. What’s your poison?

E – Well, personally, I want to grow my seed of creativity into a world tree of copiously fruiting genius, so I’m going to stuff this vapouriser with a probably unwise quantity of fresh-from-the-Dam NYC Diesel. One of us shall be vomiting by midnight, Mr Berkeley, and that someone shall not be me. I will awake fresh as a stoned daisy, while you crawl out of the bin dripping with sick. Onwards to adventure?

R – I take that as challenge, mate – if I’m puking anywhere, it’s all over you. Let the games begin!


E – You know they’re calling it Sober October now?

R – Who are? I don’t know anyone who’d curse themselves for a whole month just because of a shit slant rhyme.

E – It isn’t even a slant rhyme. Stop trying to sound clever. I’m talking about the same soul poisoning bastards who made idiots grow vile charity moustaches in November, and then they invented Dry January and Smoke Free fuck-knows-when, and now they’re trying to do it to October too! Why can’t they just admit that they’re complete fucking alcoholics if they have to ruin everybody else’s life just to give their liver a few days off between Christmasses? And they call ME a junkie! ME!! At least I don’t slap labels on whole months and tell everyone else what they can and can’t inject tomorrow!

R – Don’t complain too loudly, mate, you know Samuel’s just itching for a reason to give your life some structure and purpose.

E – Oh god, it isn’t my fault! You KNOW it isn’t my fault! It’s autumn. It’s what I do in autumn! What could be more autumnal than curling up by the fire with nice warm syringe filled with beautiful golden smack? And besides, the quality gets so shit in winter – it’s only sound common sense to get absolutely cunted before November hits. If Samuel institutes Sober October, I am leaving home!

R – Ah, “home is where I lay my needle” – I can just see that written in quaint pink and yellow cross stitch, hanging over the bin you’ll be living in when he freezes your bank account…

E – I am more than capable of living on my wits for a month to escape Sober October, Rob! …what were we actually talking about, anyway?

R – We weren’t. You just started harping on, and apparently you didn’t even have a point. We’re writing a Halloween story!

E – Oh god, what the fuck? You told me I was here to write a brief opinion piece regarding the atrocious carrot cake Kate got from Tesco last week! Was that a lie??

R – Seriously? You seriously thought Men’s Health magazine wanted a fucking opinion piece from an undernourished vampire who ate a bad cake this month in Clent, England?

E –Well, not when you put it like that – that sounds very derogatory! Just because I don’t inject steroids into my bollocks and emit a perpetual cloud of protein farts doesn’t make my male magazine opinions on food any less valid! And just because I’m not a testosterone-fuelled narcissistic muscle worshipper doesn’t mean I won’t BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU IN A MINUTE!!!

R – Ahh, ‘undernourished vampire finally reveals prized secret of his patented, never beaten, eye-watering New Rock boot to the knackers manoeuvre’ – Men’s Health might be into that one, I reckon, but alright, I give in. There is no opinion piece. That was a lie. You’re writing a Halloween story, with me, your favourite person!

E – For fuck’s sake, Rob. Is it a horror story? Here you go – I am sitting here with Rob. He lied about the explosive trajectory of my journalistic career. Instead of imparting PITHY COMMENTARY ON SUBPAR BAKED GOODS I am sitting here with an ARSEHOLE who wants me to tolerate his ‘writing skills’ again, and as the terrain of fart jokes and Grandma’s Dildo Goes Squelch monologues unfurls before me, I am HORRIFIED. I am SO horrified that I spontaneously combust, leaving behind a grisly corpse with [INSERT AMPLE AND LURID DESCRIPTORS HERE]. The End. That do?

R – See, now you’re just wasting your creative juices, like an obese internet troll jizzing lazy swimmers all over his anime pillow! We’re not writing a horror story, not this year – that’s too obvious! I mean, we might still want to veer in an eerie direction, but this time we’re going for something much more lucrative. Tonight, we’re going to take on the booming erotica market, and write the next Fifty Shades of—

E – DON’T YOU SAY IT!! DO NOT FUCKING SAY MY NAME! I haven’t had to tolerate a word about that heap in a pleasant few months. I mean, do you realise how close I could have been to actually being called Christian Grey? My father probably angled for it, as far as my mother’s barmy religious naming ideas went – I only narrowly escaped being Moses! I may have loathed and despised my ridiculous fucking name for the entire duration of my childhood, but Jesus. I got off easy. Can you even imagine the shame I could be suffering at this precise moment if I was called Christian Grey? I’d have to move to the North Pole and speak to nobody except especially dim-witted penguins for the next four decades. So, to appease my barely controlled fury, if we’re writing erotica, I want to give somebody else the same uncomfortable feeling. Our character must have an unnervingly familiar name, paired with something…odd.

R – …

E – What?

R – Well, I just think you’re missing the fucking point a bit here! No one cares about the wanker’s name – when you start writing erotica, you don’t fanny about for a lengthy paragraph working out the naming details, and whether your character prefers Darjeeling or Earl Grey, or whether you should give their pet cat an interesting little quirk like a fear of butterflies or a tendency to fart during tense sexual moments – you don’t need that shit in erotica! It’s all about FUCKING. Lots, and lots, of filthy fucking. All we’ve got to think about, is FUCKING.

E – This is rapidly becoming intensely homoerotic. I’m not sure I signed up for this, if I’m honest. If you’re having problems in that department, and this is your perverse cry for help, I’m sure I can Google a sex therapist to surreptitiously hand you the number to, while never, ever telling Clara, nor leaving Viagra lying conspicuously around the house, and I certainly wouldn’t leave a bouquet of tiny little midget condoms on your pillow while laughing and laughing at your impotent plight. You want that number then, Floppy?

R – You want me to move into your wing and stage a week long orgy?

E – *Homoerotic vibes intensify*

R – Look, there’s nothing I can do about that, you blushing virgin weirdo, it’s erotica, it’s meant to be sexy! And don’t start pretending we haven’t shagged in the same room on more than a hundred occasions, or that we haven’t shagged in the same woman on a good few of those. Couldn’t always afford separate rooms at the brothel, now could we, back in the day, and don’t you forget that! If it makes it easier, focus on the Halloween stuff – a spooky porno with lots of plot is easier to watch with your trousers on, if you’re going to be all coy about it!

E – I’m not being coy about the intercourse, Rob, I’m merely protecting my NOTORIOUS VIRILITY from having to hear graphic sexual acts described with the luridly heinous atrocity of your writing technique. Frankly, I think I need to be stoned beyond all limits of human endurance before we get going with this, so when it’s over I can pretend it was all just a weird, weird dream…

R – Well, I’ve got a gram of Columbian in my sock drawer – spark up that vape while I dig it out, the more drugs we throw at this, the BETTER IT’S GOING TO BE!


E – Oh Christ… Is that thing even clean?

R – Course it is – we used it in the bath, it’s waterproof! For the readers out there, I have attempted to elevate the erotic vibes of this table by laying out an inspiring array of sex toys. One Hitachi Magic Wand, some shiny red anal beads, and the current jewel of our personal collection, a vibrating Dragon Dick dildo – it’s black and red and FUCKING ENORMOUS, with a curious shape that causes all manner of unpredictable and thrilling sensations! I’m inspired already!

E – My arse actually hurts just looking at it. What on Earth is wrong with you? I mean, I thought I was the one with the fucked up childhood. Is there something we need to talk about?

R – Yes – you’re 195 years old, and you still won’t stick anything up your arse. Tied up and beaten to a pulp, that’s fine, shooting up smack during blowjobs, bring it on, but oooh nooo, don’t touch my bloody arse! You’re a fucking weird one, Vanilla Bean, and I think that’s going to limit our erotic prowess tonight. Are you going to start this thing, or am I?

E – Fine, fine. I think I’ve achieved the desired state of psychedelic disassociation required. All I am is a levitating brain and some strange wiggly fingers. Fingers before me, dancing out words, and yet…are these fingers really mine? Gosh…do my hands always look like that? I feel I’ve never really noticed them before. They’re not unappealing, as hands go, just disconcertingly unfamiliar. One never really looks at one’s own hands, does one? I sound like the queen. There are a maximum acceptable number of ‘one’s in a sentence, and I just exceeded it. My punishment will no doubt be the arrival of an obese flatulent Corgi on the doorstep tomorrow, adopting me as its guardian, curling up at my feet and farting and farting until it sounds like a rousing trombone rendition of the National Anthem. But anyway, look at my hands! Appreciate my skilful wiggling fingers! I couldn’t have picked them out of a line-up, a line-up of hands, not yesterday, but now, now the veil is lifted. I truly see them. Welcome, hands, to the spotlit pulpit of my conscious mind. You have my full attention. Nice veins, if you’re into that sort of thing, and of course, I am. That ring looks fucking filthy though, I lost it for most of the 1930s, as an interesting aside, and then it turned up in the bottom of an old sock in my wardrobe, and I never did remember why I put it there. Safe keeping, I suppose, but still, good luck to still have it. Hmm. That was more of a tangent than an interesting aside, if we’re being honest. Knuckles are very strange, aren’t they though? All those wrinkles. Do you think Angelina Jolie gets botox injected into her knuckles? I bet she does.

R – Mate, can I have a whisper behind the curtain of your creative process for a minute here?

E – *unfurls curtain* What’s up? You got stage fright? I was just easing myself into it – it’s a big jump from highbrow commentary on carrot cake straight into my first porno. I’m a bit at a loss for words, actually…and yet I have so many of them! Words, I mean. Isn’t the lamp beautiful? It’s so stern and sepia, like a lovely old lamppost when you’re walking home from the inn wondering whether you’ve got any more whiskey left, or whether it’s about to become one of those nights when you have to upgrade to laudanum, with that tingly sarsaparilla stench that truly is an acquired taste, read: totally loathsome, yet somehow I miss it, and you end up sitting in the bathtub with one shoe on, trying to write an aggrieved letter to parliament, except you’ve forgotten how to spell it. Pahlehmunt. Parleemoont? And then the next thing you know it’s morning and somebody’s been sick all over you. That’s what the lamp makes me think about. Ahh… Nostalgia.

R – …

E – I don’t even care.

R – Right. I clearly need to break it right down for you here. First, you went off on such a waffle about your own hands and how nice they look, I really thought you were launching into an erotic post-modernist realism piece on a one-man wank show, and I wasn’t entirely feeling the vibe of your artistic direction, mate, but I’m now getting the feeling you’re just going to put your sexy hands on the keyboard and spout off complete bollocks at any given opportunity, would that be correct?

E – I would hate to prove or disprove any theory originating in your mind. I’m above language. I’m beyond time and space. There’s an entire universe orbiting my consciousness, out there, beyond the ramparts of my eye-sockets, and you’re really just a small, peeved moon to me. Nobody cares about the moon, Rob. Especially when there are billions of them out there. They come, they go, orbiting the sun that is my brainstem. Will I explode if I look in the mirror?

R – Right. Well, it looks like I’m steering this ship. Now, I know I said we don’t care about the bloke’s name, but can you at least give me that so I can pretend you did something useful? Familiar, but odd, you said?

E – Mmhmm. Exactly. Familiar… Toilet Duck. No, no, not a name. Not even a porn name. Scratch that. Familiar… Adam. Everyone knows too many Adams. Thank god I wasn’t one, I bet I came close, though no doubt she’d rather have stuck me with Eve… Anyway, Adam. Adam…Earwig. Does that make you feel uncomfortable?

R – Mr Earwig. Adam Earwig. No, it’s shit – sounds like a bloody CBeebies character. Too cutesy. Make it worse.

E – Adam Ruptured Prolapse With An Earwig On It.

R – O…k. I sense these ideas aren’t going to improve, so I think that’ll about do it. We’ll shorten it to Adam RP-Wig. Sounds like a terrible 90’s rapper. I’ll set the scene:

Adam RP-Wig is a kinky bastard. That’s why we’re writing about him. Erotica needs all the kinky bastards it can get – no one wants to read about normal dreary sex between lardy middleaged people in a three-bedroom semi with floral wallpaper, and we’ve decided we’re not doing a post modernist wank piece either, thank god, so I PRESENT TO YOU, Adam RP-Wig, the KINKY BASTARD. He was born with a dick that wasn’t just big, it was FEARSOME, and by the time he was 21 – that’s a good age, fully legal everywhere, can’t get into trouble for talking about a 21 year old having sex – Adam RP-Wig had pounded pussies all over the UK in his career as a millionaire pornstar. But by the time he was 25, Adam RP-Wig was having doubts about himself. Was he over the hill now, in porn terms? Was he about to become another sad old bastard popping Viagra and going bald and having traumatic nightmares about getting lost in a maze of bleached vaginas, just like his dad? Adam RP-Wig didn’t want that for himself, so he decided it was time to become a porn star like no other! His dick would be UNFORGETTABLE. His dick…was about to have…SUPER POWERS!

Right, Garden Boy, you can’t go wrong from here, TAKE THE REINS!

E – Oh fuck, this horse is a malformed octopus…. I don’t think I want it, but at the same time, I’m enjoying having the keyboard back – ahh, there they go, my wiggly fingers, scampering around like Thing from the Addam’s Family, neat little words appearing by magic on the glowing box before me! I am in control! The theatre of dreams is all mine, and I am willing to write this porno! Ok. Adam RP-Wig. Depressed porn star. Ideological phallic fantasies. I can work with that. Ahem.


Adam RP-Wig was lying on an inflatable rubber crumpet, bobbing gently in the warm waters of his indoor pool. He was alone. Utterly alone. The chlorinated water that slicked his skin was turning pearlescent, viscous, in the region of his shaven genitalia, as the dried-on fluids of this morning’s orgy re-liquefied into jism and saliva and vaginal lubrication. Adam didn’t remember the last time he’d truly felt clean – there always seemed to be somebody else’s bodily secretions coating his skin, and Adam’s penis had long begun to disturb him. It wasn’t really his, was it, his cock? Not in the way that his toes, for instance, were. Nobody cared about Adam’s toes, nobody wanted them. They were entirely his, quietly whiling away their lives inside the caressing depths of his socks – obedient, meek, honest little toes. His toes never troubled him, in his mind, but his penis…well. His penis was insured to the tune of eight hundred grand, which was a policy that had been running ever since his unfortunate co-star, Michael Rancid Vomit Drying Under Your Fingernails, had had his penis broken in a reverse cowgirl scene, and had never recovered. Because that can happen, you know, it’s not just an urban myth, not at all – the fear is real! Your cock…forever broken. Crunch, scrrrrrunnnnchhhh, snap – turns sinister fucking purple and bends like a banana then never stands up straight again unless you get it fitted with a pump inside your scrotum, and can you even imagine? What if someone wanted to be erotic and inflate it for you, but they just grabbed one of your bollocks instead and started enthusiastically crushing it?! Eerie, how the very symbol of virility can be laid waste by – of all things – the gentle embrace of a vagina. The mouthpiece of life itself, the river of birth, yet she is a cruel, cruel mistress Oh, sorry, returning to the point now, since Rob is glaring at me – Adam’s cock was insured.

His cock had also been moulded into an official, licensed Adam RP-Wig ‘Go Fuck Yourself’ dildo, which had left Adam with the uncomfortable sense that he never quite knew what his penis was currently doing. At any moment of any day, Adam’s penis could be violently pounding the internal orifices of men and women that he had never even met. I mean, wasn’t that a sort of rape, really, to have one’s phallus used without consent? Adam may have been a pornstar, born and bred, but he’d never been entirely comfortable with the notion of strangers having seedy little sock-wanks while staring at his face, and now those lurking, faceless strangers owned a piece of him, owned arguably the most intimate portion of his body – how could he ever sleep at night, all the while knowing that his penis was running wild across the world, fucking and fucking and FUCKING and F-U-C-K-I-N-G?!!

Adam had begun to regard his cock as an evil, soulless entity, an untrustworthy growth that was quite possibly a government spy, or maybe even a literal representation of the biblical snake, tempting him and watching him and ruining his life, and—

R – Mate, where the fuck are you going with this?!

E – Not sure, if I’m honest, but shut up for a minute, I’ve got a really good metaphor to squeeze in here, then I’ll let you have a go, alright?

R – Oh god, fine – I’ll have some more coke. But THIS IS EROTICA, mate, so make it fucking erotic!

E – Hmm. Ok. Good point. I needed that reminder. I was sort of slipping into intense psychological thriller territory, but you’re right. You’re right. It needs more sexual pizzazz… Here goes:

Adam’s cock was like a biblical snake, one long, writhing, pulsating muscle, rippling with raised veins and sexual power, dripping with hot, slippery venom…but Adam had been alive long enough to know that stroking a sexual snake only left you with emptiness and shame and a lukewarm mess to clean up. His cock couldn’t be trusted…

As he floated around the pool on his gigantic inflatable crumpet, which had seen enough filthy sex to traumatise even a hardened nymphomaniac, Adam watched the cocktail of sexual juices slicking away from his skin in pearly trails, and a familiar urge thrilled through him. His cock was evil. Look at it, lying there, naked and pink and smug, feeding greedily like a bloated albino leech on the inner secretions of twelve different women, women who would never be the same again, because as mentioned in the preliminary paragraph to which I was most certainly paying attention, Adam’s cock was FEARSOMELY ENORMOUS. He didn’t just fuck, he decimated. Adam’s cock – and this is the way Adam regarded the whole affair; it wasn’t him, it was his cock – Adam’s cock had sent multiple women to hospital, bleeding profusely from the anus, and recently he had received a court summons to pay reparations to a porn star called Britney I Just Sat Down On A Train Toilet Seat Covered In Cold Piss, because her vagina had horrifically prolapsed followed an extended doggy-style scene with Adam. His cock was a cold-blooded killer, a brutal ruiner of pussies, and worse still, every ounce of its pulsating menace was attached to him.  Everywhere Adam went, his cock led the way, both literally, and in reputation.

Adam had begun to dream of a life where he could be free. A life where he could be anyone. A life, without the evil biblical nemesis of his demonic dick. Aaaaand – TAKE IT AWAY, ROB!

R – Christ, Eden… Fuck me sideways. This is not what I had in mind, but I’m firing on all cylinders now, thank you very much Colombian coca farmers, you’re a fucking tribute to mankind. Let’s get this shit back on track:

Right. Adam’s flopping about in his pool on a blow up crumpet (??!) having a bit of a weird one, but that’s just because he ate some shrooms out of a woman’s vagina during the orgy scene earlier, and ol’ Adam’s not the best with psychedelics, so he’s sitting there fiddling with his dick and having a bit of an introspective freak out, until he starts scrubbing all that jizz off his dick so hard, he rubs out a genie! Right there, in the pool, this great big fucking blue genie appears, and says,

“ADAM! I’m a genie in a dick, and you’ve just rubbed me the right way!” and then he sort of warbles badly for a while because that Christina Aguilera song really resonated with him, and he’s never quite accepted the fact that the early 2000s had a lot of shit music and it’s best to move on and forget, really. Finally he stops singing like he’s gargling cum, and says, “I’m here to give you three wishes, because that’s what genies do, but because I’m a dick genie, and this is a piece of top shelf erotica, they have to be sexy wishes, ok? So, what d’you want?”

And Adam’s sitting there on his crumpet, and he remembers that at the BEGINNING OF THE FUCKING STORY, he was about to get SUPERPOWERS for his DICK, and it’s about bloody time he returned to that FAR MORE AWESOME PLOTLINE, so he shouts,

“I want a dick with superpowers! I want my dick to be totally unforgettable!

The genie starts doing a really embarrassing dance routine, and Adam’s sitting there feeling a bit awkward, all naked with his grubby cock in his hand, but eventually the genie seems to get the hint. He stops dancing, and yells,


And then, he just disappears, or more accurately, he dives back up Adam’s dick like a mad blue arrow, and it feels a bit like when you get a hair stuck in your urethra, and you pull it out, and it’s sort of tingly and horrible and shuddery but really satisfying at the same time. Anyway, he’s gone, buggered off, and Adam’s got no idea what he’s actually done, but he’s really bloody eager to find out!

So, he jumps off the stupid fucking crumpet (really, mate, we’re having words about this later – no one’s going to read erotica that starts off with someone sitting on an oversized rubber rendition of breakfast at a 1970’s B-and-B. Why in god’s name didn’t you make it a massive boob or something? No, no I don’t literally want to know, that was hypothetical, get off the fucking keyboard!), and he splashes over to the side to pick up his phone. He’s got every hot porn star in the country in that phone, could probably sell off his contacts list for a fair few quid if he wanted to, but no need, Adam’s fucking loaded. So, he dials one of his latest, greatest fuckbuddies, uhhh…Anna Found Myself Singing Katy Perry In The Shower And I Think Clara Heard Me, and he invites her over to test out his brand new dick!

Anna comes over wearing nothing but runny Nutella and a few carefully placed glace cherries, because that’s how porn stars roll, and Adam knows that you never really have to service a female porn star, they’re used to crap treatment, so he’s dead lazy and just smears his dick across her chocolatey stomach and makes her suck it all off. Anna’s really fucking hungry though, she’s had nothing but glace cherries and a cum omelette all day (hey, d’you remember that porno, Eden? The cum omelette? For the reader, Eden is nodding, and pulling a face that doesn’t suggest he found it particularly arousing – but there you go, see, I’m not making it up. It’s a thing. You can make an actual omelette out of jizz. It’s all white and watery, but no worse than those bloody diet omelettes they make you eat in LA, awful anaemic looking crap – if you’ve got a girlfriend on the fucking keto diet, I bet you a tenner you could make her eat a cum omelette without her even noticing the difference. And I don’t say this purely because I’m a misogynistic bastard, I’m saying it because I’m still not over being served an anaemic diet omelette when I was drunk in America in 1998, and sometimes revenge is a dish best served with a garnish of fried cum, am I right? Anyway, sorry, sorry, feeling a bit chatty after all that coke – on with the story!), so, like I was saying, she’s hungry, and he’s got a chocolatey cock, and she’s getting really fucking enthusiastic down there, sucking the marrow right out of his bone, until Adam can’t stand it anymore, and he STARTS TO COME!

But what comes out of his dick…it isn’t what he expects.

There’s this hot tingly feeling in the depths of his balls, and then his cock ROARS LIKE A FUCKING DRAGON, and it feels so good he nearly passes out, but there’s smoke coming out of Anna’s earholes, and her eyeballs are melting like runny snot, and her hair’s singeing right off, and he realises…that his dick…IS SHOOTING FIRE! He’s got a FIRE SHOOTING DICK! No one’ll ever forget that!

As Anna’s body hits the floor, there’s an amazing fucking smell, like s’mores and bacon all at once, and Adam goes crazy with fire-shooting-dick power and starts bashing in her skull on the tiles by his pool, until he finds the source of this delicious smell. Her brain is perfectly baked, and it’s like a bacon pâté, he just starts eating it with his fingers, smearing it in globs of chocolate from between her massive silicone tits, chocolate and crispy skin and brain-grease all over his throbbing dick, a dick that could unleash FIERY ARMAGEDDON at any moment!


Ok, ok, your turn, I need some more fucking coke, this is getting good!

E – Well. Wow. Alright. That was…a lot. I mean, I just have to ask…this isn’t…a thing, of yours, is it? Coming so hard you fry Clara’s brain to a crisp and then you eat it with Nutella that’s specifically just been on a tit? Do you, like…roleplay this, ever? I thought we agreed ages ago that food fetishes are completely fucking disgusting – are you mutinying?

R – Two words, mate – Burning. Marshmallows. If you think the candle wax and cigarette burns thing is invigorating, try marshmallows! Disclaimer, dear readers, if you’re a measly human those marshmallow burns’ll be a bit permanent, so I guess you’ll never know how it feels for a horny immortal, and more’s the bummer for you. But Eden, mate, tell me pain, tits, orgasms and marshmallows aren’t a winning fucking combination?

E – Wait…this is why the Cadillac smells like stale fags and marshmallows, isn’t it?! I thought I was just going insane, but it’s you, having weird sex all over the place! If you burn the Caddy down with your fucking marshmallow fetish I will LITERALLY castrate you, and toss your severed nuts, separately, into the fucking Atlantic. Now I’ve said my piece though…I have to admit, being burned with marshmallows sounds…interesting. Not sure, however, whether that’s just because I’m so stoned I’d eat anything at this precise moment. Have we actually got any marshmallows? Ones that haven’t been inside your rectum, preferably? Ah, nice one, he’s ferreting around in a drawer…aaand…he’s got marshmallows! Oh, and another butt-plug. This one’s got a taxidermy fox tail attached to it, like those hideous scarves my grandmother used to wear. Christ. I don’t know how you do it – I used to think about her stern scowly face to avoid premature ejaculation when I was a teenager, so that fox tail is one furry chastity belt to me. Put it away, it’s vile. Yes, yes I do still want the marshmallows. Ahhh.

Mmmgod…I got six of them in my mouth now. Fuck. The marshmallow fetish makes complete fucking sense. Pink and white. Pink and white. They’re quite sexual colours, aren’t they? Like pale tits with youthful nipples perched cheerfully on top. Puppies’ noses… God, they’re so squishy. There’s something overtly sexual about squishy things… lips, and tits…but not other bits, for flaccidity is not so hot, reluctant penis, he will not,

Go boldly forth into the hole,

Like a scampering eager sexual vole,

To climax, shall not the floppy bring,

No pearl necklace shall he wring,

From sperm and air into her hair;

The glistening crown of sexual pride –

But no! Not he; he goeth not inside!

Limp cock, thou art found lacking.

No one must see you;

You are bound in sacking,

In depths of drab clothes the limp must stay,

Whilst the leaping phallus seize the day!

Anon, anon, and done with such things, for Rob gives me looks that bite and sting! He appreciates not my poetry, but seeks to continue this fantasy, of burning flesh and chocolatey dicks, and other things, not so erotic – on I go, on I must, into the story we MUST THRUST!

Ok, alright, calm down, I’ve taken off my rhyming hat, you can stop grinding your teeth at me like a coked up fuhrer, where were we?

R – His dick’s got fucking SUPERPOWERS! He’s just had the best orgasm of his life and eaten someone’s dick-fried brain! How do you think he feels?

E – Well, to be honest I imagine there’s quite the kaleidoscopic whirlwind of emotions – I’d hate to be his therapist on Monday morning. What? Is that the wrong answer?


E – Shit, sorry. Got it. Erotica. Got to stay on track with the sexual stuff. Here goes:

Adam lay sprawled out on the cold, hard tiles, his cock still emitting small puffs of smoke, each one sending a thrill shivering up his spine. Anna’s corpse was in bits around him, her skull emptied out, the bone charred but for pale scratches where Adam’s teeth had gouged against it, seeking desperately for more dick-fried brain matter. Her headless body lay in an inelegant heap, surrounded by smears of Nutella, and Adam began to sink down, down, from the euphoric heights of his fiery orgasm. She had been his friend, and now she was dead, decapitated, cannibalised, her corpse shamefully smeared with chocolate spread, and knowing porn producers it wasn’t even proper Nutella, it was probably some vile generic shite from Lidl – did anybody deserve to die wearing nothing but scatological smudges of cut-price foreign supermarket condiments? Adam writhed away from the horrors before him, grabbing his cock and desperately yanking it – he would summon the genie again, or tear the vindictively evil MEMBER from his body in the attempt! He felt that fiery tingling beginning to thrum in the sinister cavern of his scrotum, and he aimed his cock towards his face, hoping that he could commit a suicide of atonement in the scorching blast of his own ejaculate, but instead, the genie erupted into being, a mighty blue figure with beady yellow eyes, untrustworthy glowering eyes – of course, Adam realised, of course the genie was evil! It lived in the EVIL DEPTHS of his EVIL PENIS, and now he had summoned it forth! There had to be a way…a way to trick the genie into doing good, into taming his BIBLICAL NEMESIS of a dick! Unfortunately, Adam was currently being scripted by a literary God of Creation too stoned to come up with a fiendish and demonic genie-baiting plot, so we’re just going to improvise wildly and hope it turns out brilliant – stick with us, and hold on tight!

“I need another wish!” Adam demanded, with as much dignity as a naked man smothered in cheap chocolate can muster. “I want my cock to only do good. I want my cock to have a superpower that BETTERS THE HUMAN RACE!”

The genie’s yellow eyes glinted evilly; it gave a flourish, and burrowed back into the bloated snake of his penis. Adam stared around himself, unsure. Could he trust the genie? Could he trust his cock? There was only one way to find out…

R – Oh, what the fuck have you done now? How is bettering the human race supposed to be sexy? How am I meant to make his cock perform humanitarian aid work?

E – I’m challenging us! Who says erotica can’t be challenging? Aren’t you up to it? Give us the coke, it’s wasted on you.

R – I didn’t say I quit, I just said you’re a useless cunt. Have at it. I’ll start us off:

Right, Adam’s in the mood to do some good, according to the substitute teacher wankstain I’m letting ruin my story, so he thinks and thinks about good deeds, but they all sound like REALLY hard work, jumping on a plane to Ethiopia with sackfuls of lentils, or listening to abused children whinge then telling them the Tories have slashed the budget so they’ve just got to go back home and get smacked around some more – nah, good deeds were a pain in the arse. He’d do what all lazy, loaded people do, and toss a cheque at the nearest charity – job’s a good ‘un. But, just to find out what that genie had done, and because Adam was still really, really hoping that he’d ACTUALLY GET TO HAVE A DICK WITH SUPERPOWERS like he was MEANT TO FROM THE FUCKING START, he decided to see what his cock would do next!

He thought about indulging in a bit of necrophilia with Anna’s still-sexy corpse, but Eden’s shaking his head so we’ll pass on that, I guess it jars with the themes of good deeds and…tragic retribution and…psychological…conflict? Mate, stop mouthing big words at me, will you, we’re not writing a goddamn self help epic, it’s EROTICA! So, he just starts having a good old wank, slipping back into the pool and letting the warm water caress his MASSIVE COCK and all that other good stuff, but suddenly, from under the water, the head of his cock glows bright red, and starts vibrating, and jerking around, and he realises that it’s become a POWERFUL COMPASS pointing towards a HUMANITARIAN CRISIS he needs to RIGHT!

Adam leaps out of the pool, and throws on his dressing gown so he doesn’t get arrested for flashing, then he runs out of his front door, following the powerful pulsings of his purposeful penis! (Yeah, I thought that was good too, nice bit of plosive alliteration, if you read that out loud you’d spit all over the screen, and spit’s a bit like jizz, so it’s almost a visual metaphor for arousal, pat on the back to me, I reckon, right, on we go) – outside his house is a big block of posh flats, and on the roof is someone about to jump off and FALL TO THEIR TRAGIC DEATH, but Adam’s dick twitches, and it launches towards the woman in need! He flies through the air, dragged by his SUPERPOWERED COCK, and finds a fat bird about to jump off the roof, because no one’ll ever love her, so he says,

“It’s ok, I’m here now! I’m never gonna love you, but I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget what love is!”

Bow chicka-wow-wow the porny music starts up, and they’re grinding away on the top of the roof, sunlight bouncing off her enormous arse, and it turns out she’s not just any old fat bird, she’s one of the good ones, with the tits you’re afraid you’ll suffocate under, tits so big you feel like a pea rolling down the moon, tits so big there’s nothing in the world BUT tits for you right now, and Adam fucks her so hard she loses forty pounds and gets a modelling contract, and then—

E – And THEN Adam, as the orgasm ripples through his brain, is struck by a beautiful sunset epiphany, during which he realises that describing a woman as a ‘painfully unfuckable fat bird’ (because yes I did see you edit that phrase out, Rob, apparently you’ve got half a conscience, at least) isn’t a Nice Thing To Do, and Adam wouldn’t be such a judgemental prick in future. Good deeds begin at home, Rob. Sometimes they begin in your pants. Everyone’s fuckable to someone. Remember that.

R – Oh come ON! You are the BIGGEST fucking hypocrite, Eden Newly Elected Saint Grey! I have been married to an AGEING HUMAN WOMAN, and no matter how intolerable she became I still fucked her, while you, on the other hand, who died at TWENTY FUCKING FOUR AND SINGLE, have never, ever screwed anything below an eight unless you were too drunk to see your own dick! One day I’m going to record your scathing coked-up commentary watching a nightclub dancefloor, because YOU are BITCHIER than a room full of low rent drag queens. Shocked, and appalled, Mr Grey, watching you slither clumsily into the world of politically correct blogging, you bald-faced bullshit artist!

E – …

R – For the reader, Eden is sniggering his bastardy little face off and eating my marshmallows. No comment then, Garden Boy?

E – Well, what do you want me to say? Good deeds do begin at home, but I never said they begin in this home – I’m old, I’m stuck in my ways, it’s not my fault I died long before obesity became a global epidemic, it’s all very alien and peculiar to me! I can never make myself fatter… Fatness is exotically weird, and one tends to comment upon that sort of thing, much like exclaiming, GOSH, the SKY appears to have THREE CHINS, how unusual this day is becoming! It’s quite normal, really. But I do my best, don’t I, to be nice? Are you satisfied yet, for fuck’s sake, or do I have to keep plucking excuses from the ether?

R – I’m mostly realising that we are the single most unqualified people to write any story ever about a horny penis doing good deeds. You’ve fucked us here, mate. Hypocrisy is the only thing that’ll get us through. Right, rock on:

Adam’s got a Humanitarian Dick now, and there’s nothing he can do about it, so he’s going to become lovely and appropriate, forever and ever, when he’s talking about…making tender love to women whose personalities shine like a diamond through their goggling ogre eyes until beauty seems cheap and fickle in the blinding light of the GOODNESS OF SUCH A TRULY ANGELIC SOUL! Blessed is he who can see through the vulgar disguise of temporary flesh, and into the…seat of…goodness and kindness and supportiveness and all sorts of other positive nesses!

Right, what d’you think? Did I pull that off? The I’m a bloke you wouldn’t immediately toss into the fires of hell act?

E – I bought it, more or less! But we need to get nauseatingly saccharine, if we’re to conceal the fact that we’re actually mass murdering immortal dickheads with shrivelled souls like spiteful raisins. Can I have a go?

R – You might as well. We’re in the weedy thickets of your fuckup, right now – it can’t get any worse, can it?

E – Ok. Adam was realising that fucking the undulating form of that Rubenesque cherub (wait, can a cherub be a woman, or am I writing pedo porn by accident?) – cherub-faced…angel…thing, oh fuck it I’m terrible at insincere compliments – all that wonderful bouncing fleshy sex hadn’t been to save her life – it had been to save his! The world didn’t need saving (but god that’s an awful cliché, of course it needs fucking saving, just look around, everything is FUCKED, there’s a piss-eyed orange neo-nazi apologising to rapists on national TV, there’s lying fucking Theresa Ma— never mind, never mind, Rob’s about to hit me, so PLOUGHING ONWARDS with the shit clichés) – the WORLD DIDN’T NEED SAVING, but Adam did! He realised in a tumbling avalanche of harsh truths that he’d made a fortune from an industry that drove school-children to molest their peers, that drove women to mutilate and bleach their labia, not to mention all the cringe-inducing gasping and O OH OHHH BABY YES FUCK ME SO HARD FUCK ME FUCK MEEEE that it seems to encourage in twenty-something blondes in California these days, when certain lead singers are on tour wondering what in FUCK’S NAME just caused tonight’s groupie to act like a victim of demon possession – an industry that forced Adam (because that’s who we’re talking about here, sorry, sorry, sex rant tangent) to go home every night smeared in sexual fluids, hating himself, hating his own dick, wanting to TEAR IT OFF HIS BODY – he had spent all day believing that a malicious genie had emerged from his piss-hole and driven him to murder and cannibalism, and now…now, as the magic mushrooms he had devoured from a bleached vagina this morning reached their peak, Adam saw everything in perfect clarity:

It was time to get out of the fucking porn business. It was turning him into a paranoid wreck. He would take back the identity of his penis, altering it with scarification and a large gauge Prince Albert, so that he never need fear those replica dildos anymore, then he would admit to himself, finally, that he wasn’t the thrusting, steroid-fuelled, Viagra-pumped, empty-inside fuckmachine that his porn star dad had brought him up to be. Adam was actually GAY, and would have a future packed with size queens and their spacious rectums, no longer fearing that every woman he touched would turn inside out afterwards like a gruesome vaginal stalactite, and along with his parade of boyfriends, Adam would open a dog sanctuary, and serve humanity through wagging tails and smiling furry faces, and, well…if anything ever went wrong…

…then maybe, just maybe, there really was a genie in his dick… And Adam still had One More Wish left.

The End of This Delightful Halloween Tale.


Well, what d’you think? Not bad, right? A few clever sideways manoeuvres, the invention of the plot pretzel, and we’re out!

R – I’ve never been so fucking glad to see the words ‘The End’ in my entire life, but at the same time, I’m still pissed off about my superpowered dick story NEVER FUCKING HAPPENING. Why do you have to ruin everything?!

E – Because you introduced me as mentally unstable, Rob! And you LIED about the CARROT CAKE INTERVIEW!! What did you expect me to do? I have to ask though – what particular superpower did you actually want to give his dick? Like, did you truthfully have any kind of game plan here?

R – So, I hadn’t gotten into the specifics, if you must know, but I was definitely going somewhere with that fire shooting dick thing before you buggered it all up! I thought I might have him lured into the criminal empire of a sadistic porn king, and he’d have to blast his way to freedom using nothing but the fearsome powers of his fire-spitting dragon dick! And EVERY burst of flame would be an orgasm, so there’d have to be a really sexy ramp up to each move – he’s in the basement lair of a porn king, right, so there are captive porn girls in cages, and maybe the occasional taxidermied pair of famous tits on the wall to rub, and a portcullis covered in vibrating butt-plugs, and—

E – Please, please don’t continue – the enthusiasm on your face is firmly convincing me that this entire scenario is going to get vigorously roleplayed tonight with Clara and several of the gruesome implements before me. And I’m keeping these marshmallows, by the way – I deserve to get something out of sitting in close proximity to your used anal beads for the past two hours, you gruesome fucking pervert. Shit…it’s late, actually, it’s really fucking late! There’s no way in hell my dealer’s going to pick up the phone now, not that I’m in any feasible condition to drive a fucking car anyway, but NOW I have NO SMACK AT ALL until he gets out of bed at 11am tomorrow, you COMPLETE ARSEHOLE!!!! Did you plan this?? Did you do this on purpose? Are you IN LEAGUE with Samuel or something?!

R – My god, you’re one paranoid little freak, Eden – it doesn’t have to be a grandly fiendish conspiracy just because you’ve found yourself inconveniently conscious for a full evening – I just wanted to have some fun! With yooouuu!

E – I am about to beat you to death with your own dildo if you don’t stop looking so FUCKING GLEEFUL ABOUT THIS SHIT, ROBERT!!! It is OCTOBER, do you not REMEMBER what happened in OCTOBER, eight years ago?? The world ENDED! There was NO fucking smack, not anywhere in the country, not for FOUR FUCKING MONTHS, and AS YOU WELL KNOW there’s been a partial repeat every bloody winter after that! So excuse me if I am somewhat on edge about the fact that I have nothing in the middle of these intensely perilous times! STOP LAUGHING!! DO NOT FUCKING TEST ME, YOU LURCHING SHIT-BRAINED SOBRIETY-WREAKING ANUS!

R – AAAAAAHHHHH NAAAHHHH, he’s breaking out the bold text on me, it’s getting serious in here! Look, alright, I’ll be straight with you – I may have entered into a small bet with Samuel, about the fact that I could easily convince you to straighten up your shit for a while, and I thought this’d be a nice way to do it, alright?

E – What.The.Actual.Fuck, Rob. Why? What fucking interest have you got in me becoming a tedious NA-thumping sobriety-wanker?

R – None, mate, absolutely none – I’ll even come out with you to score in the morning, we’ve blown through most of the coke and that’s a shit state of affairs. I only did it because Samuel was going on and on about ‘leading by example’ and tossing all my whiskey out the window to prove that a drug free life could be rewarding – fuck only knows what he’s been reading, but he really was going off on one, and he was threatening my way of life as a dedicated pisshead, so, I just told him I could get you to stop much more easily, with a nice evening of therapeutic conversation!

E – And he…bought that? He bought the fact that you of all people were going to sit down and be so nice to me that I’d have some kind of fucking epiphany??!

R – Oh come on, of course not! I told him therapy was all about confrontation. And hard work. And harsh truths. And all those other things that Samuel likes the sound of, because you know he secretly detests you for being so stubborn, and the more your recovery plan sounds like medieval torture, the more he loves it. So, he thinks I’m up here verbally abusing you and making you think about horrible traumas until you’re weeping in the foetal position on the floor. Happy?

E – I… Fuck. I have no fucking words, you’re all completely insane. What else have you got in your sock drawer of wonders? Any ketamine?

R – Maybe, maybe not, just like Schrodinger’s cat – you’ll never find out. This whole thing is pointless if you don’t wander around the house all night looking sober and disgruntled. It’s one night, or Samuel gets underway with a level of crazed fervour I haven’t seen in years. You should be fucking thanking me!

E – Fuck you, I’m off. I’m out, right now, before I break something centuries old and irreplaceable, like YOUR FUCKING FACE. I am going to eat people and scream at the invisible moon! Christ! WHY couldn’t this evening have just involved slaying Tesco’s rotten crumbly cake with the lacerating blades of my immortal disgust, like I was promised? Why does NOTHING ever do what it says on the tin! Why is LIFE always a box of BASTARDS dipped in SHIT when it’s meant to be a WHIMSICAL SELECTION OF CHOCOLATES??

R – Yeahhh. My work here is done. Your face is the perfect picture of crushed dreams and earth-shattering junkie realisations. Now, get the fuck out of my room, and send up Clara, my night’s just beginning.


R – Well, the wailing’s fading into a sort of pathetic wordless yowling now, sort of like when cats have sex and the lady cat’s just realised that cat dicks are barbed, and the fun part always ends with a horrible shredding – myyywwoooowwllllarghhhhhnoooooFUCKFUCKFUUUUCKKK, etc. I have full conviction that within one hour he’ll be writing a ‘strongly worded letter’ to his MP about ensuring the supply of heroin to the UK remains consistent no matter what the outcome of the Brexit deal. Literally – it’s his main concern about the whole thing, ignore all that moral outrage about diabetics and the economy and chlorinated American chicken – Eden only cares about Brexit upsetting the delicate balance of the international drug trade.

Anyway, I’ve had fun tonight, and now it’s time to work the kinks out of this superpowered dick fantasy – I think it’s shaping up to be a classic! So, here’s to a big rude Halloween, you pervy fuckers, and feel free to share our little tale if this steaming piece of highbrow erotica tickled your fire-shooting pickle!

Eden’s still having a meltdown out there, Samuel owes me five hundred quid, and all’s well with the world. THIS IS ROB THE GOD, OVER AND OUT!! 😀



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So Healthy I’m Dead…

Humans! You just never cease, do you?! The bewilderness of my ancient existence continues to flourish, strange new trees of screeching insanity bursting through the ground, sprouting into life all about me until I can barely see the moon of logic! This week, this week, it is your incessantly ghastly health trends that are driving me to MURDER AND MADNESS…

It all began, you see, with this: https://www.elle.com/beauty/health-fitness/a28600/amanda-chantal-bacon-moon-juice-food-diary/

I stared, bemused, at the arsecrack of 4am, my 17th joint hanging idly from my fingers, as I lethargically scrolled down this perplexing list of complete bollocks that one of you refers to as ‘food’. And I thought…this woman is fucking mad! Her fear of death has driven her completely, and totally mad. More mad than I am, and that’s quite an impressive feat, so they say. But I mean it, she really is! She’s so utterly terrified of even catching a sniffle, that she spends her entire life snuffling around the world, finding reams of herbal bullshit to eat and drink and snort and bathe in and shove up her arse, that she has absolutely forgotten how to enjoy anything EVER! You can see it in the words, in the ‘this is such an easy meal’ (meal, MEAL?!!) and the ‘drunk in the car!’, with its casual exclamation mark as she throws back her head and laughs uproariously at the notion of being so WILD, so crazy and subversive as to drink a beverage in the car, like some big fat normal person with a fucking 7/11 slurpie made out of lurid neon chemicals, HaHA! HA HAAA! WE DRANK IT IN THE CAR! It’s fucking ANARCHY with me around, haHAAAAAAA!!!!!! …and then you realise, this woman hasn’t had any fun in about twenty years. Don’t smile, or you’ll wrinkle, don’t drink that water, it’ll shrivel your pineal gland and rot your soul, and don’t even THINK about BREATHING that polluted filth, unless you do it through a spongy membrane woven by blind Tibetan monks out of the fossilised faecal matter of the last dodo! And when you eat, it must never be food, you must never use your teeth – JUICE! JUICE ALWAYS! YOU’LL NEVER FIT IN ALL THE MAGICAL BULLSHIT IF YOU DON’T JUUUUUUUUICE EVERYTHING!

The vegans are just never done, are they?! Raw veganism, it seems, still isn’t an extreme enough trend for the frothing overweight mentalists who believe that the ONLY WAY they will ever cease to resemble a Krispy Kreme is if they leap aboard a wobbling ship made entirely of broccoli and flatulence, and sail away into the horizon to a rousing cry of, ‘NOOO, I DON’T MISS FOOD AT ALL!’, occasionally punctuated by piteous weeping, or the sound of the fattest one stuffing his face with mustard-smeared napkins from the nearest rubbish dump. No, no, not mad enough, never mad enough, we still have to subsist on farty broccoli, but now we can’t even chew it! MORE MISERY, THIS DIET NEEDS MORE MISERY, OR NOBODY WILL EVER MAKE IT INTO A GAMESHOW, AND HOW ELSE CAN A THING POSSIBLY  EXIST, IF NOT TO BE A GAMESHOW?!! SHOULDN’T ALL HEALTH ADVICE BE BASED ON THE STRENGTH OF ITS HASHTAG?!!!

Fucking juicing…

I told you I’m psychic, didn’t I? Well, I can’t just turn it on and off like a light-switch, inconveniently for everyone, but I don’t even need my third fucking eye (and by god I loathe that saying, it’s very discriminatory! JUST because I happen to be psychic does NOT mean there is something hideously deformed about my face, on any astral plane! I have two eyes, which are in perfectly natural locations, just like everybody else! You shan’t make a FREAKSHOW OUT OF ME!), I don’t even need to be psychic to see the future of juicing vegans! Evolution is a harsh mistress, and if you don’t need something, she’s going to damn well take it away! The vegans of future generations will be born with no teeth at all, no mouth, just a blubbery gaping maw like a moistly prolapsed rectum, pulsating with angry red veins and slippery, greasy juices, to be plopped down into a puddle of green broccoli slime and slurped grimly up. In fact, their arse will probably look exactly the same, and nobody will ever know which end is which due to their habit of eating their own liquefied shit, after all, it all looks the same, and organic shit is simply bound to have spiritual properties.


Anyway, I thought all of this, and then I took another drag on my joint and the tides of the internet lapped over the whorls of my brain, until I was washed away to some other distant shore…whereupon, I found this:


These are reusable water bottles – all very noble, very eco-friendly, I approve of that, since after all, I shall still be here, in an immortal sulk, when your crappy species has murdered the planet and nothing exists except for hungry vampires and bags of Wotsits. ACT AGAINST CLIMATE CHANGE NOW, and all that! However, these water bottles, are stuffed with fucking crystals, which supposedly charge the water with all sorts of magical fucking properties, and you’d better get the right one, goddamnit, you’d better buy several and make sure you don’t botch the recipe, because this website constantly reminds you how POWERFUL these crystals are. Dear god, thought I, what if I’ve been doing it wrong all these centuries?! I’m sure there are some stone items around the house, and now they all have POWERFUL PROPERTIES! What if everything that’s ever gone wrong in my life is because I disrespected a lump of labradorite, or looked at an amethyst in a state of sexual excitement?! A mad, wild road lieth that way…how do we know, for instance, if we are to swallow this concept, that other things don’t have Powerful Properties too? I mean, what about BMWs, for instance, they seem to roundly turn their drivers into arseholes (I should know, I’ve owned them, and it appears I never quite recovered) – is there a property, innate to BMW cars, and wakened into being the moment they leave the showroom? And what about Volvos, are they unavoidably soporific in nature? Should I seek, for the most bounteous snooze, the cradling embrace of a lumbering Volvo covered in dog slobber?

And the worst thing is, the worst fucking thing about these fucking water bottles, is that I actually WANT ONE! Because they’re BEAUTIFUL! I had been eyeing them with scorn and derision, until Kate peered over my shoulder, and began exclaiming over the beauty of it all, and I was CORRUPTED! I looked again, and shitfuckingbollocks she was right, they were pretty, and I wanted one, and then my brain and soul were mangled into a BLOODY WARFARE of materialistic lust, and the desire to not look like an incurable fucking hippie wanker, until in a fury I slammed down the lid of my laptop and stormed out to buy some heroin, and got lost for hours in the fucking armpit of Sparkhill, until I was sitting in the dark in my Audi, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for my never punctual dealer and wondering if it was the innate properties of an Audi, or just my increasing need for drugs that was making me fidgety and tetchy and impatient, and that maybe if I had some crystal-steeped triple filtered broccoli-shit to drink, I might feel better about my dealer’s concept of ‘about five minutes’ stretching out into seeming aeons…

But then, then, the FINAL INSULT to my failing, flailing sanity, has been…the Fit-Bit…

You can guess, can’t you?


As ever, his infinite delight with the wonder of science has prompted him to buy into this demented trend, and he has spent the past three days with multiple watches around his arm, some of which have also been worn by temporarily kidnapped humans, as they don’t seem to work with great accuracy on us, much to his extreme frustration. And of course, with Samuel, it’s always the human element that intrigued him the most – he would never make a detached scientist, nor will he ever, I suspect, truly attain that hideous, cold, reptilian stare of some of the truly ancient ones…no. Samuel always liked the human element, in his science. Books were interesting, but he wanted to fit in, he wanted to know the right modern opinions, about everything, from Queen Vicky’s wedding dress to high-definition porn – what do the humans think of it? That was the question that mattered, that still matters.

As a result, we have been enduring the unspeakable company of a health fanatic named  Mike, who spent an entire fucking night with us, proudly discussing the capabilities of his Fit-Bit, followed by a demented exercise session, wherein he and Samuel ran around the local countryside, covered in watches, with Rob and I floating above, drinking whiskey and trying to spit on their heads. I confess that the latter was at least a little bit fun, but it didn’t forgive what was still to come! Dear Christ these people are self obsessed! I mean, Jesus, I’m about as egocentric as they come, with my hair, and my eyeliner and my multiple wardrobes, and my photo collages that inevitably feature me to a rather greater degree than is polite, but even so, I am not so completely self obsessed, as to feel the need to wake up every morning then immediately and extensively study a personalised graph about how well I just slept! These people, they know fucking everything about themselves, they want to talk about it all, and it’s duller than rounding up all the dogshit that seems to breed in front of our garage these days! How many steps they’ve done, what their blood pressure is, how many miles they might have walked if they hadn’t just been standing on the stairs going up and down and up and down andupanddownandupanddown like a fucking hamster on crack, they even know their blood oxygen statistics, and the only use I can see for that is to decide whether they taste better after a little light suffocation, which is a hypothesis I have yet to confirm, but volunteers are always welcome, just bring along a Fit-Bit and I will joyfully eat you for the betterment of vampiric science.

On the second day, Rob ran off with one of the watches, on a quest to see how many calories a wank might burn. He returned somewhat later, to report, in tones of mild awe,

“They can tell the difference! It knew I was just wanking, not walking, so it wouldn’t work, or…well, to be honest it might’ve just sensed my absolute apathy, because there I was, with Clara ready and willing in the bedroom, and instead I’m hiding in the bog having a miserable old wank just to impress a plastic watch. I wasn’t up for it, if I’m honest. I let us down there, in the Pure Wanking category, but when it comes to jogging on the spot slapping your cock about the place, well, that does burn quite a few calories! Maybe I should make an exercise dvd – you’d buy it, wouldn’t you?”

I scowled at him, and he grinned, continuing,

“I burned a lot more calories with Clara – actually think it improved my performance, because I was so focussed on jiggling around as much as possible, it was a really vigorous session, and after that, when I saw my heart-rate chart, well, I’d done so much work I was just wasting away, really – didn’t want to end up all weedy like you, so we went into town and murdered a couple of chavs, just really, really murdered them, I smashed them face first into all those hubcaps on the Bullring, and then— Shit, don’t tell Samuel that bit, you know how he gets when we try to wangle ‘but he was wearing Adidas’ into his self-righteous ‘we only kill the evildoers’ rulebook…best not mentioned, he’s still being weird about that bloke I killed for wearing a man bun and hippie trousers. I burned a lot of calories beating the shit out of them, though – these watches are pretty brilliant! D’you want to wear it tomorrow night, see if you can beat my shagging and killing score?”

I hurled my book at his head in furious disgust, and stormed upstairs to WRITE THIS LETTER!!

You have GONE TOO FAR this time! Health is a futile crusade! Human beings, you are all going to DIE, and there really isn’t anything you can do about it, so please stop making up nonsense that makes you feel marginally more in control of your own rotten mortality! You are a small, squishy, helpless pink worm, surrounded by electronic equipment with the capability to zap you into a drooling cabbage, and a kitchen full of knives sharp enough to chop off your fleshy little toes, and a bathroom you could drown in at any moment, and outside there are cars zooming around smashing into each other and blowing up, and there are nuclear warheads stationed all over the planet ready to flatten entire continents, and all of us crawl around shitting and screaming and flailing about in our own filth as the rock we inhabit whizzes through endless suffocating nothingness filled with exploding chemicals and boiling lava and mysterious black holes that are probably portals to hell, and nobody has any control over anything, not even their own bladder in the end! You, unlike me, are ABSOLUTELY DEFINITELY GOING TO DIE!!!

…and if I see you wearing a Fit-Bit (or Adidas) or drinking a green smoothie, you may find yourself dying rather sooner, and more violently, than you may have hoped!


It is time for bed. Soon it will be Saturday night, and then I will have better things to do, like death and destruction and blood and drugs, and maybe a spot of dancing. With glowsticks. Because we currently have some very, very good drugs, and just because I bear the heavy responsibility of being demonic and fiendish, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy gurning my face off while thrusting luminous twigs up and down like I’m possessed, when I’m in the grip of modern medicine.

Ah, drugs – they are the one scientific wonder that gives Samuel and I the perfect patch of common ground. I like the human element too – why read about a drug when you could just eat it, instead?

Onwards, to Adventure…


Eden the Profoundly Unholy, the Slighted and Wronged and Despicable, etc etc.


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Browsing The Instagrams…

Dear Human Beings.

I am Eden, and I have rather a lot to say about you. What the fuck is this?:



Am I very very stoned, or is this 21st century buttock worship rapidly reaching a state of deliriously rabid insanity? I mean, I appreciate a good arse, who out there doesn’t, but all of my life, whole centuries of it, I never really gave that much thought to the perfect arse. They came in all sorts of shapes and sizes – that was the beauty of them. They were as much a surprise as everything else you found in a girl’s knickers, often more so – I rarely got to physically size up the proportions of a new conquest’s arse until it was all over, and she was walking away from me, nude. I may have fucked her from behind, of course, but everybody’s arse looks good from that view; the real admiration of the posterior only came in parting. As such, it wasn’t a lustful sort of entity, to me, an arse – it didn’t scream, PHWOOOAAARRRR, I’m going to BUGGER THAT SENSELESS! Rather, it was merely a nice sort of pale dome, retreating into the haze of the afterglow; a full-cheeked smile that was often the last I would see of a girl.

But now…now, the humble Arse has become fetishised into the depths of moral ruination! NOBODY’S arse is good enough now, is it?! It was bad enough when they started doing this to tits, flaming Christ, I still remember the first wave of breast implants, and they’d knock your fucking teeth out if you got too enthusiastic, they were like lumpy skin-socks stuffed with rocks! Rob and I started writing a song about them, Dirge For The Natural Nipple, or something, I forget, but it was an agonised ode of longing for better days! Yet on it went, the Tit Ruination Revolution, and now people leap out of bed screaming if a tit dares to look like a tit, let alone feel like a tit – there’s no variety anymore! Time dribbles on by, and we all become more and more malformed and disgusted with ourselves. TEETH? Forget about it! No more tooth-coloured teeth allowed, everybody must now have mouthfuls of glittering neon bathroom tiles drilled into their jawbones! Fat? WHO CARES! We’re all so completely over worrying about being fat, now! It’s not nearly enough anymore that I could slither through a drainpipe unscathed and my stomach muscles could…oh, I don’t know, perform some ludicrously impressive feat like squashing a small, unripe strawberry in my bellybutton. Except that sounds excessively grim. But you know what I mean! Nobody has ever looked at me naked and found me desperately lacking…in general. Everybody has their off years, don’t they, when they become so profoundly deranged that things like eating and sleeping fall entirely by the wayside, but you KNOW WHAT I MEAN, I was doing alright! I was pretty damn near perfect, but NOT ANYMORE! I have to get bigger, I have to be gluttonous and huge and intimidating and SWOLE! If anybody is ever to find me desirable, I’m supposed to stuff myself with veterinary medications bought from a sweaty tracksuit bastard in the back room of a gym, while glugging down vats of liquefied chicken and supplements that make me fart, while spending hours a day picking up heavy things and pulling faces and grunting, and then drinking more chicken sperm and farting the ozone layer into dust, day after day until I weigh 600lbs and resemble nothing more than an impressionist sculpture created by a drunk man out of chewed, congealing bubblegum – lumps and blobs all over, and a tiny, baffled, bald little head flapping about in the middle.

This is the ideal I am supposed to attain! It isn’t just my PERFECT PHYSICAL FORM under attack here, it is my very intellect, my lifestyle, for EVERYTHING must be tossed aside  and trampled beneath the thundering hooves of this manic quest for bubonic lumpiness!

Lumpiness… They’re obsessed with it. The disastrous lip fillers of the 1990s, which were splattered all over the tabloids, labelled ‘trout pouts’ and roundly mocked, WELL, everybody fucking wants one now, don’t they? No lip can ever be big enough! They storm into the beauty salon and just demand, ‘Fuck me up! I mean really, really fuck up my face – I have to look like a freak, I have to have a unique lumpy selling point, and then I’ll be an Instagram star and people will buy me hundreds of handbags, and that’s absolutely definitely worth having the lower half of my face expanded into one inhuman bulbous lump!’ Deformed beyond repair, the entire world cheering and dancing about and imitating them, in some grotesque reversal of all that was holy about body modification. I don’t profess to be an expert, my immortal condition has rendered tattooing futile, though I have had tattoos done, just for the experience. And I do like piercings, I like doing them to myself – it’s not as though I can irreparably fuck it up, and after 195 years of seeing the same face in the mirror every day, it’s deeply satisfying to occasionally stab holes in it, or drunkenly hack off all its hair. But the whole point of body modification, for humans, mortals, seemed to be a claiming of ownership over one’s fleshy vehicle, a big shiny stamp of I CAME, I SAW, I CONQUERED – mortal souls would leave bodies they had turned into homes; you could look around at the doilies and the teacups and the carpet and say, Aha, he was This Sort of a man. People put genuine feeling into it; even when it didn’t look good, it had feeling. They made their homes interesting, and if the decorations only made them duller, you knew to stay well away.

But now, these days, we seem to be on a bizarre and ghastly crusade towards total, terrifying homogeny. It isn’t even about emphasising human beauty anymore, as it always had been – humanity has become loathsome, makeup isn’t an extreme enough disguise for one’s bloated, sagging, horrifying humanity anymore, no single part of an individual can be allowed to appear human. There isn’t a single untouched mortal on the planet who is considered good enough, now, is there? I mean, most of them look stranger than I do, and I’ve been dead since 1847!

People say it’s terribly racist to find it hard to tell another race of people apart, but what about Millennials? Is it alright to point out the fact that I can’t tell fucking any of them apart? I mean, I browse the Instagrams, from time to time. I am a creature of curiosity. I’ll look at the Instagrams if I fucking well choose to! Just because I’m a vampire, does not mean I must be eternally highbrow – I can and WILL look at the fucking Instagrams! But I can’t tell them apart! I suppose I’ve watched Rob go through this already, when pop-punk came along, and for about ten years he only ceased grinding his teeth and swearing when he found a teenage prat in a Blink 182 t-shirt to hurl into buildings (which made it all the more amusing when I found a Blink 182 CD in the car. When he finally confessed to its ownership he made some rambling drawn-out argument about all music being acceptable from a passive-critical perspective, that you could listen to anything at all without toxicity so long as you didn’t buy the t-shirt, and you chased it down with something better. Obviously, I couldn’t argue with a good drinking metaphor, and it gave Rob the perfect excuse to beat the shit out of children after bonding over All The Small Things. Life went on.), but bloody hell, why me?! Why must I have to waddle through the same sea of shame!

I thought I’d already witnessed the ruination of the goth scene, around the same time, when fucking emo came along and crapped skateboards and skunk-streaks all over the pavements like check-patterned pink dung, nasty little ratty-haired panda-eyed wankers invading the dancefloor, ruining my whole fucking year when they came up and complemented what I was wearing, which would immediately cause me to run screaming into the bathrooms to take it all off because WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE WRONG TONIGHT?!

It wasn’t over. It’s never over. Goth has been Instagrammed, and the results are fucking heinous. Never speak the name Killstar within my presence. Do not utter the term ‘nu-goth’. And don’t even think about wearing anything covered in white upside-down crosses, or creepy cats, or a fucking Baphomet head, or a handbag cunningly and uniquely disguised as a bloody fucking SPELLBOOK, or a pair of ‘quirky’ black John Lennon sunglasses, or your hair in bun-pigtails, or a round-based floppy black hipster-witch hat, or a Wednesday Addams-esque gloomy black school-dress with a neat white collar and buttons, or a black thing covered in a shitty white symbols that look vaguely occult, or ANY OF THE REST OF THAT UNGODLY BLOODY CRAP! Because I will EAT YOU! I swear to every single fucking god that I will BLOODY WELL DEVOUR YOUR FACE should you enter my house draped in that shit, that shitty fucking SHIT that is ruining my WORLD right now!

They all LOOK THE SAME! Goth, packaged up into a cotton-polyester xeroxed hipster soup-spew of homogeny! I detest it!

…however. What I was actually talking about, it now occurs to me, was buttocks. That video. Yes. Buttocks, deformed by liposculpture and rubbery implants, lied to by a million brands of Detox crap-your-guts-out Instagram Tea, depressed into oblivion by pointless hours of squats and lunges, and STILL your downstairs shithole isn’t good enough for the world’s sneering eyes! NOW you need to do all that, then go and drown yourself in a bucket of non-biodegradable, planet-raping glitter-shards until you’ll be fishing sharp little shreds of plastic out of your designer vagina for months, as will every sperm-whale and cod and porpoise in the ocean for the next MILLION YEARS, just to appease your followers on the INSTAGRAMS – of course everybody desperately desires to see a pair of enormous swollen bumcheeks that look as though they’ve been sitting in a leprechaun’s shitty nappy!

And do you know why it all baffles me so much? At the root of it, at the true heart of this issue, is…well – the rectum. It’s right there. Right in the middle. It’s what the whole arse is for, really, isn’t it? It’s a shithole. A lone brown eye. A red raw gaping abyss from which endless torrents of faecal matter plop and dribble – they all shit, the humans, even the Instagram clones who prefer to have their glistening vegan colons sloshed out in a weekly ritual of scatological sodomy; it’s undeniable. Everybody shits. And when I look at an arse, this fact is never far from my mind. No matter how many times Rob tries to convince me of the glory of the back passage, and no matter how many times Timmy tries to turn me gay, or I try to turn myself gay in pursuit of more proudly collected sins, the simple fact of the matter is that I would always rather be fucking a vagina! I mean, dear god, that’s what it’s THERE FOR, isn’t it?! It’s what it does, and it does it so beautifully – I have no cause to complain. I have no cause to spurn its warm, enveloping charms, and delve around in more spurious areas in pursuit of something that actually stinks, just because the modern man has seen far too much bad porn and is now convinced that his entire identity as A Blokey Bloke has been suicidally compromised unless he can get Debbie from Starbucks to let him stab her shit! I don’t need any of that! I never have! In my day, you fucking had to stab the occasional shit, if you were feeling inclined towards a good rowdy bonk of a Saturday night – all the Proper Women were too well guarded by chaste, scowling aunts, and the prostitutes didn’t want to spawn your unlovable bastard, so up the arse it went, fast and frequently. I’d be lying if I said I never enjoyed it, but I almost always wished it was somewhere else. There was just no mystery and victorious naughtiness about shoving it up somebody’s arse, back then…

And so, you see, when I see an arse, a normal arse, walking away from my bed after a glorious conquest, I just think, Well, that was Quite Nice. Goodbye, little arse. I don’t immediately, or necessarily think about shit – I mean, I’m not some kind of pervert, but strangely enough, the Spectre of The Lavatory most certainly does dangle over me whenever I see a decorated arse. Because why would you do it? Spraying glitter all over an organ designed to force out chunks of putrid shit for eighty years or more until it leaks like a rusty faucet – why would you draw attention to such a thing?! Do these people do the same to their toilets? Cutesy cat faces drawn in the depths of the shitter, so you might force your piss into their eyes and mouths, and the words I SHIT RIGHT HERE! emblazoned across the wall on a motivational poster?

Don’t dream it… Shit it….


And of course, I can’t even say this anywhere! Not just because I am banned from commenting on anything except dogs via Kate’s Instagram account, but also because we live in a twisted era of manic extremes where one must either murder, or ejaculate – there is nothing imbetween, there can’t be, it’s impossible. Nobody simply says, ‘I mildly dislike the colour of your lipstick’ anymore – they have to ERUPT WITH HATRED over absolutely everything the person wearing the wrong shade of pink has ever said, thought, purchased, worn, dated, and dreamed about. Some people get so angry on the internet I genuinely wonder whether they just spontaneously combusted. And I say this as…well, me! I have been known to get somewhat irate upon the internet, I’ve caused keys to ping off the keyboard and bounce around the room, I’ve even occasionally torn a laptop into pieces and tossed it across the valley, although I rather regretted the latter… But anyway, anyway – simple dislike must always be amplified into bilious eruptions of violent insanity, and approval…well. Approval…

It’s almost as bad.

It may even be worse.

Language, you see, this too is en route to depressing homogeny, and it isn’t even good language! Why in Christ’s name is it that I can never scroll down any of the Instagrams without seeing reams of Millennial maniacs hollering ‘YASSSSSSS! SLAY! QUEEEEEEN! YOUR CONTOUR IS GIVING ME LIFE!’ – I’m fucking dying inside simply typing that nonsense out, hunty! I mean, am I finally becoming truly antiquated, or is this generation’s informal verbal diarrhoea even worse than the sixties?!

I despair. I have run out of ghasts to flabber, so that is that.

And yes, yes, I know I wasn’t supposed to be having an extended cultural critique tonight, I was supposed to be telling you all about the latter portion of my birthday, but, well! I am NOBODY’S BITCH, and it was my birthday – I shall tell you about it when my schedule permits! This is the interval. I’m allowed intervals.

Anyway, I have said my piece. Should you, humans, stumble across more gruesome trends, I would be intrigued to study them. I need to stay on top of human culture, and I particularly need to stay on top of despising it!

Yours, despairing, flabbered and shook, etc,

Eden the Unholy!

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A Voyage into the Weird… (Part One)

Hello, mortals…

It has been many days since my 195th birthday celebrations; we have finally sobered up, and I suppose I should tell you all about it.

It was going to be a pretty typical (or violently atypical, depending on your perspective) Vlad-organised affair, involving elaborate mass murders and startlingly creative deaths – we’ve had blood waterslides, men’s throats slit above pyramids of wine glasses as though we were serving fine champagne; plastic sheeting is laid down all over the house, everybody knows not to wear white (or anything you treasure, frankly), and any human entering the Orgy of Chaos is fair game. As are their remains, which will generally be used for some species of gruesome sporting event later in the evening. However, this year – as I mentioned – we had come upon a mindboggling smorgasbord of recreational substances, the potency of which we hadn’t experienced in…well, far too long. I wanted to be happy! More than happy, I wanted to be peeling-off-the-ceiling euphoric – I wanted to trip balls, lose myself in the whirling neon lights of this incomprehensible electronic future, and forget my ludicrous ongoing antiquity! I have already experienced deeply unfortunate hallucinogenic trips involving the entirety of 19th century London turning into a reeking citadel of the walking dead, and I will never forget that shit – as a result, the idea of tripping balls whilst a mansionful of deranged vampires smacked decapitated heads around my dining hall, using torn-off stiffening limbs as bats…to be honest, it didn’t really appeal.

So, not this year, we told Vlad. Wait until September…or October; Kate and Rob can revel in your dubious feast of delights. He seemed placated by this – plenty of time to plot, prepare, acquire… Of course we still invited him, amongst others, and given that Rob and Clara, plus our many guests, would be bitterly disappointed and decapitate half of Birmingham if there was no blood and mayhem, we allowed Vlad a limited amount of fun. Humans, we stated, were most certainly welcome, in a food capacity, and if they died, well, that was alright. But everyone was to clean up their own corpses, and ideally no carcass was to be torn to pieces and hurled about the place. Low key – clean floors; elegance and restraint, or for god’s sake use the garden! We informed our guests that we were all going clubbing first, preferably without the entire rabble of vampires, and therefore the afterparty would begin at around 3am. Every velvet drape in the house was closed, ensuring that the manor would be in complete blackness, and night may merge seamlessly into night, with no irksome sunlight burning anybody alive, or marking the tedium of time passing, because who among us would give a shit if it had been four days or forty years? The dining hall was turned into our own private rave, loud enough for dancing, quiet enough for conversation, with blacklights everywhere, whirling disco-lights and lasers, a smoke machine, a projector, one thoroughly mindfucked DJ who had been locked in the cellar all night, wearing a white t-shirt emblazoned with ‘DON’T EAT ME, I AM THE MUSIC MAKER!’, and all manner of bizarre rave toys from our memories of the sweaty, gurning good old days.

But all that, was to be part two. I wanted to venture out first! I desired to trip balls while driving down lurid neon highways through the sinister 21st century! I wanted to go out and OWN THAT NIGHT, pulverise my braincells amongst the young, edible fleshlings of this DASTARDLY FUTURE!

We spent several hours segueing into our best selves in Rob and Clara’s enormous, glittering bathroom, as is our custom, hurling eyeliner at each other through a fog of weed smoke and spilled whiskey. Rob suffocated us all with hairspray, his green mohican towering into the air, ridged in smaller purple spikes for my birthday. Purple is my colour, not his, but I told him it was shit anyway; there should have been 195 spikes or NONE AT ALL!

“Fuck you,” Rob replied, ruffling his hair and then aiming the hairspray directly at me, “Do you really want me shaving this off now, and chasing you round looking like a Nazi cunt all night?”

I summoned the mental image of a bald Rob, and shuddered. I conceded,

“No, I suppose not. You’re embarrassing enough without a goosestep and a Sieg Heil…”

He laughed. “We’ll see who’s embarrassing by about 4am. I trip with good grace – you trip like a paranoid screeching lunatic fresh out of the Bog of Dribbly Thoughts. Oooohhh noooo, Rob, there are DEMONS scratching round my BRAIN, trying to get IN! And you legitimately, like fucking legitimately thought carving ‘FUCK OFF’ into your forehead with a razorblade would defeat an army of invisible mind-infesting zombies! It was like in your twisted little world, ‘FUCK OFF’ was the most powerful rune you could possibly invoke! Dear god, Eden, you need to start a religion better than Poo Voodoo someday, I can’t die before I’ve watched you presiding over whole crowds of frothing, shit-smeared mentalists casting out demons with nothing more than excessively vulgar language!”

I pulled a face at him, turning back to the mirror before he could see me shiver. Much as I love getting hyped up with everybody else, I always end up wishing I could just eat the damn drugs right now and be on my way; the dread tingles of nervous anticipation were curling up in my stomach, whispering in fear, What if all this is a horrible idea? What if this time it destroys you forever…or at least for several decades? What if you murder everyone in that club, and their bodies crawl back up off the floor, bones crackling, heads dangling off, then they hold you down, peel off your skin and inject themselves through gaping, bloody portals in your veins, scratching…SCRATCHING all the way up to your brain! Crawling around in there forever and ever because YOU CANNOT DIE! Screaming inside your mind, dragging their claws down the inner walls of your skull until—

Shut up!” I hissed under my breath, snatching up the end of the latest joint and relighting it. Nobody paid me any attention – the music was loud, some aggressive thrashing bollocks of Rob’s. My reflection blew a cloud of smoke at me, and it seemed reassuringly together, smeared with eyeliner, its hair a gleaming black spiky chaos. I admired myself, wondering whether a few new piercings might distract me until we left, but the hairspray emissions choked me yet again, and I turned to see Kate resembling a black and pink Sonic the Hedgehog. She didn’t have 195 spikes on her head either, nobody cared about my birthday, but nonetheless she looked fantastic, and I couldn’t help smiling – if I had to spend a night losing my shit with zombies scrabbling through my veins, I would at least have an ally in this chaos…as in everything. She glanced my way out of a painted eye, grinning, and plucked the joint from between my fingers.



After an eternity of hairspray, we were ready to leave, to embark upon this crusade. Rob and Samuel were equipped with rucksacks full of blood, me carrying what really mattered – the chemicals. We paused to cloak ourselves in heavier layers than usual; the Cadillac was tonight’s vehicle, and the heating is shitty, but more than that, tripping…it makes us cold, or more truthfully, it makes us notice that we are cold. I suppose humans feel that sort of thing too – they feel everything more intensely when they trip. But for us, that fucking cold phase we go through is bloody ungodly – we have a tendency to become the absolute worst of cuddle-puddle gropers, because humans just feel so fucking warm and soft, squishy little irresistible radiators, and we never want to let them go… If you’ve ever met a strange, cold, gropey weirdo at a nightclub, with pale skin and eyes like glittering saucers, it was probably one of us. It might even have been me

Swathed in ludicrous furry drag queen pimp-coats, we strode out into the night, and I beamed at my obscene chariot – she stood proudly in front of the house, as vast and regal, as insane as any trip-vision, our sparkling purple ’59 Coupe de Ville, chrome grin glinting in the moonlight. Her insides had room for everyone and several more, as we slid across the worn black leather of her wide bench seats, the steering wheel on the wrong side, and me driving because it was my fucking birthday, and I love this car. I whisked my stupid little raver-twat rucksack off, and fumbled amidst baggies filled with experiences, just waiting to be swallowed whole. Most people would do all this nonsense in the house, but if we’re going in the Cadillac, then we are going in the Cadillac. Sitting out here, in this car full of memories, surrounded by darkness, it could have been any time in the past half a century, but for our ridiculous hair… Ash to ash, bones to trees; everything changes but me…

I passed out pills, one each, just like it used to be, like it should be – no need for double-dropping here. Rob opened a bag of Type A, and we washed them down with blood, grinning in anticipation, Rob and Clara pausing with pills on their tongues to take a fucking selfie – apparently the crusade to document my birthday, and thus my downfall, was well underway. Next came a bump of speed each, then I passed the drugs to Kate, and turned on the engine. That line of speed was already fizzling, tricking into me, and the gravelly explosive vrrrrrooooooom of my ancient car made me laugh out loud. I stuffed a much-agonised-over cassette tape into the machine, and off we went…

The bleak valleys and soggy wintery trees spun by in the stark blur of the headlights, and as we turned onto the highway towards the vast concrete arteries that would take us north, the speed took full effect, the flick and crackle of lighters almost simultaneous around me as clove smoke began to fill the car, poisons sucked down into hungry vampiric lungs. A black Polo stuffed with horrible little kevs caught us up, three of them dangling out of the window to gawp at our car, level with us, before Kate cranked down the blacked-out window and gave them the finger, then they laughed and roared forwards, apparently expecting a race. They were sadly misinformed, for once – any other car, but not this. Never the Cadillac. We’ve looked after her for decades…she could shift, once, by the standards of those times, but now, and laden down with the five of us? Fuck off, mate – the chrome on this beast is worth more than you make in a year…

With that pleasing thought, I swung my boat of a car onto the motorway, and let the needle climb. IAMX were playing, that song about surviving in…a nightclub? A dark alley? A broom closet with a dodgy lightswitch? Whatever they were teaching me to survive in, all was lost, for I had already forgotten. All I knew was that the song came from a vampire film and you know we hoover those up like little rocks of cocaine dropped in the carpet. Thoughts were zipping pointlessly through my brain like neon speech bubbles declaring ZOOP! ARGH! WAIT, SHIT, IS THE HANDBRAKE ON? Kate was saying,

“…but what if, I mean what if that was how it really went! No more hairspray for vampires – not ever again! The whole marketing of hairspray might change, and—”

“You suspect there are industry insiders?” said Samuel. “Who know of us? The hairspray industry, dictated to by the undead?!”

“Absolutely!” Rob declared, “Look at my hair – who doesn’t want to be me?”

“You would be surprised…” Samuel murmured. “Have they ever asked you for your opinions on hairspray? EVER? In nearly two centuries? Have they ever—”

“Plenty of fucking humans ask me about my hair! You NEVER KNOW – I might be owed a thousand billion in hairspray revenue by now, and I was just too drunk to notice!”

“What the fuck,” I demanded, in a panic of absolute insanity, “Are you all BABBLING ABOUT? Somebody EXPLAIN TO ME why vampires are responsible for modern hair or I will HIT YOU ALL!”

“It’s just logic!” said Clara.

“We ARE The Night!” said Kate.

“DEFYING GRAVITY!” roared Rob, all of them at once.

I shook my head, reaching over to pluck the bag of speed out of Kate’s lap, and steering with my knees while I stuck in a finger, and rubbed the resultant grit onto my gums. I dropped the bag back into her hand, whining,

“Give me a fucking cigarette and repeat that bollocks?”

Kate laughed, and stuck a half-smoked black clove between my lips. Rob was already away, explaining,

“When they hang off the ceiling, their hair isn’t right, it just sticks to them, sticks to them like—”

“WHO?!” I screamed in exasperation. “WHO THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN??”

“The vampires,” said Kate, snapping away at an uncooperative lighter, “The vampires in the film! Their very hair defies gravity!”

“As though they could not afford the appropriate production values,” Samuel added sniffily, “Of true to life vampiric dynamics! I taught you when you were barely days old the importance of scuttling up walls, like a truly learned demon! The amateur may—”

“Float,” I groaned, “But only the…I don’t know – the truly dastardly shall scuttle, and the grubby little fool shall float without artistry! No doubt followed by a lecture about the dashing properties of your medieval red velvet tights, or the—”

“AND WHO WEARETH THE VELVET NOW?” Samuel howled in triumph. “TELL ME I WAS NOT A SEER OF CENTURIES PAST!” He roared with insane laughter, opening the window and hanging his head out, his voice whipped back by the wind – “I SEE ALL! I AM STILL HERE, FOR AS EVER, IIIII WAS RIIIIGHT!”

Christ, said Rob’s voice, inside my head, You’ve let Samuel’s speed-demon loose again…

I met Rob’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, and shot back,

Think yourself lucky Frederick didn’t want to come…

All I received was a telepathic groan, and a sense of impending doom – Frederick hadn’t wanted to come clubbing tonight, but he was sure as shit not missing the party. All those goddamn vampire films with their elegant, detached elders, those people really needed to bear witness to Samuel and Frederick on a bender…

“But the HAIR!” said Kate, derailing my thoughts. Samuel withdrew his head from the window, and wound it back up. “If they can stop their hair floating, they must be able to make it float! That means I could make ALL MY HAIR STAND ON END just with a thought! I’d be like Tonks from Harry Potter! I could—”

“Threaten people like a pissed off cat,” I said, grinning. “What are you going to do, grow your armpit hair too and terrify people with a bristling display of vampiric armpits? You’re right – I’d shit myself…”

Kate dissolved into sniggering, Rob started pondering aloud whether furry bristling pubes might create a passable mockery of a ‘crap phallus’. On through the night we soared. Rammstein had begun teaching us to count in Deutsch, a necessary part of every modern-day goth night out – at least it wasn’t fucking X-RX with their ghastly industrial yoga class – I’ll one-two-move my feet directly up your fucking ARSE and you shall all BEWARE the RECTUM SHREDDING spikes upon my boots!! I was saying all this out loud without even noticing, but nobody seemed to give a shit, most of them were talking to their own reflections in the windows, or staring blankly up at the moon.

When the pills kicked in, they were far from subtle. The roads were empty, the Cadillac was feeling good, and we were just arriving into the maelstrom of Sheffield, its ghastly bloody one way streets splattered everywhere like rushing neon spaghetti, noisy staggering rabbles of drunken students pointing at my car and doing a bizarre dance of elation – did I really see that? Dude, DUDE, did you fucking SEE THAT?? I was beginning to wonder the same thing. Am I really here, on this planet? Was I ever? Is this all a computer game? If I run over that group of people, will they have huge machine guns I can pick up with a satisfying PING and start murdering everyone? As if on cue, a gorgeously ridiculous old school trance-house track thundered into life, Kate whooping and beginning to car-dance – behind me the back seat erupted into a fit of fist-pumping and wide, glittering grins. The lights were blurring past, streetlamps pulsing and shivering in time to the music, the whole world violently vibrating before my eyes. I felt as though I was flying, or freefalling, or exploding into one full body nuclear orgasm – goddamn these were some ludicrously fucking good pills. My jaw shuddered, my teeth crunched horribly together, and the entire world rattled like a broke junkie – I yanked the wheel to the side, stomped on the brake, dragged up the handbrake and collapsed sideways into Kate’s lap.

“Fuuuuck…” said Rob’s voice vaguely from behind me.

“Mmhmm…” Clara agreed, equally vaguely.

“Ahh…” said Samuel. “This is a strange place indeed… Strange…”

Kate’s fingers were shakily tracing patterns through my hair, and I felt my eyes roll back in my head until I was blind, my teeth grinding together but fuck it felt good. I wanted to do something, do something DO SOMETHING, I didn’t know what but somethingSOMETHING, like being on my old point-to-pointer as a mortal teenager – the unstoppable pulse of the music became a horse’s thundering stride, powering over the rough, muddy turf, wet branches whisking past my face, enormous fences looming out of the mist then vanishing as we launched into space, fingers caught in a tangled web of coarse mane, then a brisk slap of the whip and the cold air froze my face into a manic grin, the idiots left far behind me – unstoppable, all powerful, a FUCKING GOD!

I snapped out of my trance, sat up, observed the neon madness, and pulled the car away.

“Glad you’re not…dead…” Kate mumbled. I glanced over and she was staring out of the windscreen like a fascinated cat. I reached out and took her hand.

We left the car in the usual sinister indoor parking garage, stark fluorescent lights flickering over our still white faces. All around me, they looked like pale, gleaming waxworks, but for the glittering dilated madness of their eyes. Stepping out of the car was jolting; strange, surreal – the music stopped. Without the music encasing my thoughts, turning life into a slick, pulse-by-pulse music video, my cells broke apart and drifted into the night, scattered atoms returned to the barren wastelands of space… I felt naked and sparse yet truly present, here, here, in this startling century… So many memories, enough to drown in, but here we are. Alive…and so surreal…

Our footsteps echoed on the concrete, concrete concrete, all about us, a lurid fluorescent tomb made of death and magic – we’d started running with no verbal consensus, feet slamming into the pavement in a pounding thunder of sheer aliveness, cold night air rushing past our faces, numbing my lips, then we’d lifted off, hand in hand, speeding silently through the night. I broke away, spun cartwheels, the stars whirling tracers past my staring eyes until I slammed into a great big ghastly something with a fuck and a shit and an alarm went off, tearing through the silent darkness – it was a car, I’d hit a fucking car, and broken the bastard’s windscreen, and now it was yelling at me as I scrambled up from the floor, finding that Rob and Kate were raving away to the rhythmic din of the car alarm. I dragged them onwards, onwards to the club.

Would they even let us in, in this state? Was it a good idea, in this state?

Probably not…but as we drew closer, the muffled bass thumping became a magnet, drawing us in like the scent of blood on a clear, cold night. The old church rose above us, our feet treading a worn path through trampled grass, sparkling shards of broken glass, dandelion weeds and shadow…black and purple balloons bobbed hypnotically at the door. Inside it was chaos, sheer deafening beautiful chaos. Samuel was in the lead, smoothly mindfucking the bouncer, then the till girl – we paid nothing, not usually our style, we like to support our favourite places, and this, Underworld, it was our favourite of favourites, as far as the UK goes. But tonight…tonight we didn’t have the fucking faculties to fumble with our mundane coins, to speak to sober human faces, to pass for the mortals that we were not, and would never be again…

We drifted inside, shedding our ridiculous furry coats and thrusting them into the corner of the DJ booth, without even asking. The guy looked annoyed, then he saw Clara, and gave us a wide grin and a thumbs up; she ignored him, we all did – we had already been hypnotised by the music, the thumping bass that shook the ancient stone floor, thrumming through the bones of my chest; is this how it feels to be human? Do they feel the same, all around me, these fragile temporary beings? I suppose I’ll never know… There were notes bouncing through the night, sugar-crusted candy synth rainbows falling from the sky, scattering the floor in a pastel-shimmering rainbow like broken Mardi Gras beads. All about us pale hands jolted and twirled through beats of shocking white light, darkness, light; it became a swirling madness, fog wreathing us all, blinded, lost, until Kate’s face emerged through the smoke and kissed me. The music screeched to a halt, restarted…it was clearly a mindfucking, though whose, I didn’t know – the song that started up was so familiar it felt like sinking into a warm bath. We’d never chosen that song, it chose us, years ago, just as it must have chosen the humans who recorded it, those whispering female vocals overlaying a tripped-out sunset beat, hissing cymbals that ebbed and flowed like waves, and didn’t we all know? We all knew, here together, now, on the same chemical cocktail…as the rush comes…

We probably looked like a morons…we probably looked insane. It didn’t matter. All these people, these flesh-wagons made from temporary atoms of dying meat, they would be dead and gone within a sparse few decades. Everywhere we go, we’re always on holiday, on vacation – our behaviour doesn’t matter. We have no reputation to keep, not before the near-dead eyes of fading mortals in their tawdry, worn-out flesh. We danced and laughed and didn’t care, because they all would die, and we would not… Only we existed here, now and forever.

Embrace me…surround me…as the rush comes…

I melted into the softness of Kate’s lips, her sharp nails electrifying my skin, tracing ultraviolet tingles that mapped out the surface area of my physical atoms, and yet I moved beyond, moved within, reached out and felt the colours of her familiar soul – we became so purple, purple and pink like a sparkling nuclear supernova, just for a second, before she broke away, grinned, spun into the smoke, snatching green glowsticks from a gawping cybergoth, beginning to wreathe spooky shapes in the darkness.

We stayed at the club for…time.

What did it matter? What did time matter to any of us? Song crashed into song, faces blurred, shifted, morphed. The only moment the flow broke was when we edged into the stark lighting of the bathroom, the music growing soft, muffled in the swing of the broken door, no longer a power that overtook us all. We stood, blinking, staring blankly into each other’s bemused white faces. Then I would grab my bag, dump heaps of powder onto the grimy shelf, each of us sucking them up. Rob demanded more pills, ground them to dust between his fingers, and we hoovered those up too, soft pink piles of true fairydust, and yet so grimy here, here beside puddles of piss and sticky clumps of toilet paper, an insult to the soaring pearlescent heaven we inhabited. Angels with piss on their boots… Angels with shit-smeared wings – but angels nonetheless. Angels don’t lose their wings, do they, if they walk through a palace of sin? Can a halo tarnish – can it stain? Can an angel feel a demon’s pain? Do angels weep, do they dream of creatures like us in their sleep?

I was jerked from my reverie, pulled towards the door, but I refused, I stopped, saying, No, no NO, wait!! And then I just had to tell them, had to tell them all that they mattered, that they were here with me, and it had been centuries, I am 195 years old now for fuck’s sake, and it’s INSANE, isn’t it INSANE, but you’re all here, HERE with me, and I love you, I love you, and Kate was biting my neck, enfolding me in the scent of our bedroom, the scent of serenity, of safety, and then Rob was ruffling my hair, Samuel was saying something profound and archaic and I didn’t understand but it was perfect anyway, and soon we were on the floor, maybe even in the piss, just hugging each other, and Jesus fucking Christ these pills kick in even faster when you snort them – I stumbled to my feet, shaking off my beloved, staggering into the strobing darkness, and going mad.



I’m not entirely sure how or when we got from the club to the car. All I know is that I snapped back into life, sitting in the driver’s seat, and staring at my hands on the wheel. They looked like pale spiders, knobbly and weird, my fingers too long, the glittering black polish on my nails all chipped and chewed. And I didn’t know how to operate this thing, this wheel, this car. The quiet rang in my ears…the car park was sinister, as white and sterile as a Russian experiment, the chill of a morgue; the depths of a shark tank. I couldn’t drive. The Cadillac would not come alive, and meld as one with my bones. It was Samuel who finally said,

“Perhaps I should drive…”

“Mmm,” I conceded. “’k…”

I got out of the car, and opened the other door. I didn’t need to – we could probably all sit side by side in the front…but I wanted to be in the back, safe there in the womb. Clara moved into the front with Samuel. I slid into the comforting leathery gloom, next to Rob, his hair brushing lightly on the ceiling of the car. Kate slid up to sandwich me in, and this was everything, everything I’d ever wanted, to be in this archaic beautiful box with everyone in the world I’d ever loved, all at once, all of us alive, still here, here, and what were the odds?! I told them so. Samuel could drive – he knew how to do it, we were exiting the car park, sliding easily out into the night, slithering through the neon and madness, this sparkling aquarium somewhere between the streetlights and the stars, and I told him, I told him how amazing it was, that he could pilot this thing, without hitting the stars…

Briefly, Kate’s hands moved down, down, somewhere a bit rude, and there was an immediate lightning strike electrifying my entire body, my entire soul, and I was on top of her, but someone, Rob, Rob that fucking bastard, yanked me backwards by my hair, muttering,

“Don’t scar me for life, Garden Boy…”

And I zapped back. Wrong. Don’t do sex in the car. Embarrassing tomorrow, if you do sex in the car…

A strong white hand lay on the wheel, piloting our starship, just as it had piloted my chaotic atoms into infinity… His blood pulsed through my cells – I couldn’t have rejected it if I’d wanted to. I started telling him, telling him how much it mattered, every second, every heartbeat, every fucking moment of the past two centuries, and now I was here, HERE, 195 fucking years old, where we soared down a glittering river of lights, dodging the stars, jumping the moon, the year 2018 and all of us still here…

And Samuel just said,

“I know… I know…”

He glanced back at me with a smile, and nothing needed to be said; he was here, in me, in my soul, inside every one of my atoms…

Right here, right now, he knew what I meant. They all did.



We were almost home, sliding peacefully through the night, surfing the solar system, when Rob said,

“We haven’t even taken the acid yet…”

“Haven’t we?” I said, and I realised we hadn’t. It wasn’t even a terrifying concept anymore – it had been hours, but the chemical battery that fuelled me now would last forever; it thrummed through the marrows of my bones, demanding more, further, faster harder fucking Scooter!

“Aciiiiid!” Clara sang, twisting in her seat and grinning at us, red hair a wild chaos around her pale face as she reached a perfectly manicured hand towards the bag of drugs, nails like blood-red claws, claws that tore off dicks, wreaked gory vengeance…

I gulped, and began digging in my little bag of chaos.

The acid was on large sugar cubes, no elegant blotter art for us tonight, but sugar cubes were better; they absorbed so much, they wasted nothing…nothing but us. I handed them out, and Kate gave me a grin and a wink, placed it on her tongue, started sucking. I did the same. It tasted of nothing but sugar, and I felt like a horse. I thought of Noodle, wondered what he was doing, whether he surveyed the same stars… What did he think of them? Would he mind if I flew down to him, in three hours’ time, and asked him about the stars?

The sugar dissolved on my tongue, turned to sweet mush; I held it there, let it become liquid, and slip away. I was on the train now, the train to anywhere…and that was ok. The night flowed like a river; you couldn’t stop it.

Like whispers in the dark…

When we turned into the gloom of the countryside, I was thinking Bedroom, warm there, nice bed, soft things…Kate…Kate’s eyes…music, hugs, smoke weed, god I REALLY want to smoke some weed, maybe go flying, maybe not…warm bed…so warm, and FUCK I’M COLD… My teeth were chattering, grinding together. But then we turned into our drive, and CHAOS! There were vans with blacked out windows, small caravans, cars from all eras scattered over the gravel, spilling onto the grass, and I remembered…

Ohhhfuck… My party…

On some level I knew that I didn’t really like a lot of these people, but then, in an instant, the balloon of euphoria swelled once more inside my chest, floating me out of the car and into the house, and the hallway exploded into whoops and hugs and a madness of vampires, sparkling eyes and white faces and cold hands all over me, and I was swept along, through the library, the living room, and into the dark swirling neon of our little rave. It was already mayhem, dancing figures everywhere, the glowing human DJ as yet uneaten, presiding over his empire of death, as the projector flickered up a whirling gumbo of vampire movies, snuff films, sinister science clips from the 1950s, nuclear holocaust warnings, videos of puppies – who the fuck was operating this thing?!

The music was too much, too thumping, and as though by psychic connection Samuel glided off to intervene – it segued into peaceful bubbling Amsterdam-coffeeshop too-stoned-to-move trance, and then he was back, waving a big fat joint hopefully in my face. I grinned, and we collapsed as one onto a stack of beanbags. Kate had a joint too, we lit them both, dragged on them gratefully, let ourselves sink down, down, through the psychedelic spinning galaxy, and into the warmth below. I was already wrapped tightly in my coat, still shivering, until I realised there were blankets next to us, great big fluffy fucking blankets, and when I touched them, they were warmer than a human, warmer than a dog!

“Electric,” said Rob, grinning, his teeth and eyes glowing eerily under the blacklight. “We thought it’d be a good idea…”

I grabbed handful after handful of fluff, wrapped myself and Kate in a bath of fluff so soft and hot it caused a simultaneous outbreak of orgasmic moans. I melted like chocolate, dissolved into the floor, the cold ebbing from the depths of my long-dead bones, staring up at the stars that whirled on the ceiling. They became a corridor; I was sucked into it, flowing down a river of lights, a tunnel to the centre of the earth, to the centre of my soul and out the other side….

And then…the stars disappeared. The ceiling turned white, bright white, as white as a fucking burning poker, and there at the centre, it stood. The room shattered into screams, chaos, overturned chairs, nails scratching at the doors, scrabbling to escape – a SPIDER, there was a FUCKING SPIDER, a spider as big as the house, as big as GOD! It towered above us, flexing its furry legs, reaching out to grasp my skull, growing and growing until all was blackness and OH GOD OH GOD I’M ABOUT TO DIE!! THIS IS HOW IT ALL ENDS! but Samuel was laughing and laughing at my side, shouting out,

“Barty, old chap! How simply divine it is to see you!”

“WHAT?!” I demanded. “What the FUCKING HELLFIRE?!!! It’s that bloody spider, it’s really HIM?! What’s he doing here? And how did he even get inside, he’s too big to get through the fucking door! HE’S HUGE AND HE’S GOING TO EAT ME, HE’S—”

“He’s on the projector!” Rob yelled, springing to his feet, “Fucking SQUASH HIM!”

There was a desert storm all about me, wind rushing in every direction as vampires fought or fled, but when it stilled I realised Samuel was standing at the projector, gripping Rob by the throat.

The spider was gone – vanished, poof. The ceiling was now covered with a video of a little black Pug gobbling up an ice-cream. No spider…no spider anymore. But where is he? How BIG IS THAT EIGHT-LEGGED BASTARD REALLY?!!

In a casual flick, Rob was tossed into the opposite corner, knocking down vampires like pale skittles. Samuel evaporated into shadow, then materialised next to the DJ, leaning down to the mic to inform us all,

“That spider is a specially invited VIP guest of mine. Anybody found to lay a single phalange upon Lord Bartholomew or his kin will answer to me, and be parted swiftly from their heads – is this understood?”

There was a mumble of reluctant assent, though I heard a hissed voice muttering,

Zey are all demented…” – I looked up to see Vlad, more diminutive than ever between the tall blondes flanking him. He was in a ruffled shirt, as ever, and his fingers twitched at his side, nails long and perfectly pointed, bereft of gore. The latter clearly discomforted him. “They harbour giant spiders here as friends! Not just virgins, but spiders! I should—”

“800 years,” Clara murmured under her breath…still loud enough for him to hear. “Ready to gamble a three hundred year difference – here, tonight?”

Vlad snorted in exasperation, clicked his fingers, and smoothly exited the room with his concubines in tow. Above me, the Pug had finished its ice-cream, and it looked so happy. I beamed at it, and it beamed back, and then I wondered aloud,

“Where the fuck is Pudding? I want to talk to Pudding!”

Kate looked equally baffled. There was a rush of air, and Frederick appeared before me, raising a large glass of bloodwine and explaining,

“Arrived early, my dear boy, and your perro had made cacka on the floor, which was far from the inviting welcome I had anticipated. Darling Timmy made it all go away, of course, and then we shepherded the guilty parties into your bedroom. Do you desire them retrieved?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding firmly. “Bring me Pudding!”

Frederick evaporated into thin air, causing a few people to gasp – I suppose it isn’t every night that the average vampire meets a two-thousand-year-old who tricks even our eyes whenever he gets excited. The beanbag next to me moved, and I turned to find Timmy an inch from my face, exclaiming,

“Eden, I simply insist that you feed me drugs! All of them, any of them, before he gets underway! We received a ludicrously baffling text courtesy of Samuel two hours ago – Frederick got it into his head that you weren’t coming back for at least a week, and as such I have been simply run ragged acting as host, waiter, and scooper of defecation ever since. Whatever you have inside that ghastly purse, I call baggsie!”

I grinned, and gave him a hug. It had been far too long, and it’s always nice to see Timmy under good circumstances, when in the past they’ve been so fucking awful, for both of us. He was draped in buttery-soft Italian leather, and he smelled like the inside of a luxurious new car; I felt tingles of capitalist excitement explode inside my braincells, caressing the sleek seats, feeling it thrum into life, until he pushed me away and examined me at arm’s length, asking,

“What have you been taking tonight? I never got half this reception when I kissed you for the first time! Do you remember? I still remember – a beautiful beach, and all that coca wine you fed me, while teaching me to give oral sex to an orange, but still you wouldn’t kiss me. And that is why I killed myself.”

“No it wasn’t,” said Rob, laughing. “You ‘killed yourself’ because you were incurably demented!”

“How do you know? Perhaps I made it all up. I think I killed myself because Eden wouldn’t kiss me. Distraught; a young boy in love! Rejection can make a person go quite, quite mad, you know. Perhaps I still am mad. Perhaps I will kill myself again. I think that I should. Will you kiss me now?”

“Fuck off, Timmy,” I muttered, smiling, “Have a pill instead – I’m 195 today, and I’m not celebrating that landmark by being eviscerated all over the valley by Frederick.”

“Oh gosh – he wouldn’t mind a jot! I have told you about the things we get up to, haven’t I? You know, since you’re all terribly high and shan’t remember a word I say, I shall say everything! Tonight I was thinking that we might—”

“I’ll lend you whatever you want,” Rob intervened, “Just fucking wash it before you give it back, alright?”

“Mon cher, on my honour, it shall smell as rosy as a virgin’s rectum. If it doesn’t, then I promise to kill myself.”

With that, Timmy was crunching up a pill with a disgusted grimace, gulping down the bitterness with several swigs of bloodwine.

“Right,” he said, peering into my bag. “What else have you got?”



By the time the dogs were led in, Frederick clearly having been distracted somewhere on the voyage, Timmy had eaten an acid tab, and insisted on snorting speed off my stomach, declaring between lines,

“I am the first! The very first of your 195th year! And now, you shall think of me with every line, and weep for the time you did not kiss me!”

He dived back into my stomach, sucked up the other line, and then licked up the crumbs, until I fell off the beanbag completely, writhing with laughter.

“Ah,” said Timmy, “You regret it already. My tongue is a skilled thing, and so very wasted on Frederick. Always distracted…always thinking. Antiquity does not bring peace…”

I’d just scrambled back under my orgasmically warm blanket when I was flattened by the muscular, wriggling black body of Pudding, who had clearly not enjoyed the solitude of our bedroom one bit. Heisenberg was all over Kate, a manic ball of deranged fur and overenthusiastic tongue, as she firmly closed her lips and tried to restrain the ultimate Ruiner of Makeup.

Hello, I said to Pudding, fondling his silky ears, meeting the anxious gaze of his wide brown eyes. ???

He snorted, rolled a nervous eyeball around the blacklit room, and bombarded me with accusations and Disastrous Emotions, about Gone…all gone. Strange man. Strange smells. Too fast – he moved too fast. Don’t like man. Bedroom. No you. No Kate. Alone… ALOOOOONE, ALL ALONE ALONEALONEALONE! What this? What all this? You…strange. Eyes strange. ???

I smiled at him, tried to convey the warmth and peacefulness and happiness I felt, and a little wrinkle of frustrated confusion appeared on his black forehead, but he huffed his resignation, and curled up against my chest. He was peaceful for all of three seconds, before he raised his head, and cocked an ear at Kate and Heisenberg, with a forceful Eden’s all wrong! You’re all WRONG too ???? !!!!

Kate glanced at me and laughed, apparently now able to interpret at least a little of that. She gave Pudding a kiss, and he frowned, his questioned unanswered. Heisenberg, on the other hand, took a flying leap off Kate’s lap, and span yapping circles around the dance-floor, driven into a manic furry tizzy by the discolights. Pudding whined in despair, and lay down across both of us, burying his nose in the blankets. I massaged his ears, wondered if he would ever grow into the majestic hellhound I’d hoped for. I’ve asked him, of course, what happened to them both, to make them so strange, to land them in a cage at the RSPCA centre, but Heisenberg has forgotten, or doesn’t care, and Pudding cares too much to make any coherent sense. I think somebody died – somebody he cared about. Dead and gone…and the two of them with nothing to eat, nothing to drink…and the smell. The smell of their human; it went wrong. He never came back. And now Pudding’s nervous about everything. He trusted that man, but he went to sleep and never came back. Which probably explains why Pudding creeps along the side of the bed sometimes, to snuffle in my ear, to make me move – to prove my aliveness…or whatever ‘aliveness’ I’m capable of.

I gave him a poke in the flank, and when he looked up in annoyance, I transmitted,

I’m not going anywhere… I’ll be here forever… For all of your forever, anyway…

Pudding didn’t know what to make of that, demanding, Short forever?????

Everyone goes away, I told him, and watched his eyes widen in horror. I backtracked, adding, Except me. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t get old. I don’t smell funny. Here. Always. Everything’s ok.

He still looked suspicious, so I gave up on words, and just let it all slide into his brain: permanence. 195 years and counting; that’s what this is, tonight – it means I’ve been here forever – day to night to another tedious dawn, on and on and on. Year following year, seasons changing, music morphing, shoes becoming more ridiculous, centuries flushing away like a broken toilet. Everything changes but me…

And Pudding finally smiled. He sat up, gave me a big, fearsome, toothy grin, and licked my ear. Then he jumped lightly off the beanbags, and took off like a cannonball, bowling into Heisenberg and sending them both tumbling through a maze of legs.

I smiled, and rummaged in my coat pocket for my rolling tin.



It wasn’t long before those innocuous sugar cubes turned, and began to slither about inside my brain. The first sign was Rob abruptly jumping to his feet and darting out of the back door to vomit. This always happens, or at least, it always happens when the drugs are really strong. Even he knows what it means – Rob’ll never let a decent drug go, I’ve watched him regurgitate pills into his open hands, rinse them off under the tap, and eat them all over again…sometimes twice. I remember one night, we’d flown home from Slimelight in a state of deranged euphoria and staggered straight through to the studio, to work on an electronic track called Hardcore Bastards Never Waste a Yacker. It wasn’t the work of art we’d hoped for, largely due to Rob’s overenthusiastic determination to capture the sense of sheer loss he felt every time one of those beauties came slithering out of his mouth, drenched in purple vampiric bile. Most people dancing in a club don’t want to hear detailed lyrics about the taste and consistency of Rob’s vomit, I suppose…

When Rob returned, he was dragging a pale, blood-smeared human by its wrist, dumping himself down next to me, and giving me a thumbs up, reporting,

“It’s a violent yacker tonight. Hold onto your fucking arse, Garden Boy!”

With that, his turquoise eyes paled, glowing white under the blacklights, and he sank his fangs into the kid’s throat. I hastily grabbed a wrist, and bit into it before Rob could be a greedy bastard. Even if I Made A Corpse, I was the birthday boy…or Birthday Relic, I suppose, at this age – no one would make me fly an annoying carcass out to sea. Anyway, I was sure I’d seen Alex pass by a minute ago – he was bound to be here with his blood-stained white van, en route to the hospital incinerator that took care of all our party debris…

Kate was busily engaged with the human’s other wrist, and just as I suspected, it was rapidly dead. Rob tossed it onto the floor behind us, its eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. I didn’t know how it had come to be here, on tonight’s menu, or what its thoughts had once been – a mindfucked human blinks out like a lightbulb…but conveniently it can still follow orders, and walk. Genius, really – humans have Roombas running around the floor, gobbling up crumbs, and while vampires may frequently be technologically backwards, we still have beautiful drinks canisters that stride around parties offering and offering themselves until they just go splat. Once we work out how to make their dead bodies dive headlong into a fire, we’ll become as lazy as the rest of the 21st century…

The DJ had clearly decided we were all sufficiently wankered: Shooting Star ejaculated itself into the luminous darkness, and it seemed that everyone I had fed pills to went a bit mad…except for us, adrift on our beanbag island. Somehow, we had entirely passed the Shooting Star Zone, and that’s a pretty fucking far-out zone. We were too fucked up to dance: the acid was here, it was queer, and it definitely definitely didn’t require beer. The song was too fast, too manic, too annoying. I looked at Rob. Rob looked at me. Nobody spoke, because nobody could speak. Kate glanced towards the DJ, and sent out a telepathic signal so badly-delivered we all heard it – I don’t even know who she was aiming for, but without words she appropriately expressed our bemusement. A dark, distant shadow accosted the luminous t-shirt of the dealer…the DJ? I don’t know…words melted… He’s the dealer…the dealer of experience…peddling musical notes to everybody, little sugary wrapped-up experiences, blopping out of a synthesiser like a pill-press… I wonder which one is my favourite… I wonder if I could hide between them, and nobody would ever find me. I could file away my soul between two pretty notes, special ones, never to be seen again. No one would know where to look – I’d be hidden between any two notes, in any song, on any album, in any genre, in any historical period… I’d be safe forever, tucked away between those notes… I just need to find the right ones…

Something dark and thrumming, gloom-laden with nostalgic psychedelia swooshed around the edges of the room, smashed into the wall, arced in a vast foaming wave over our heads, and crashed down upon us. My pores drowned…it beat in each ear, back and forth, a female voice moaning nonsense…I mean nonsense, at first I thought it was pretty, or just beyond me, because for one, I was high, and for two…I had a point here. It was a point like a fork, a fork in a nork that looked like pork, two pronged like a serpent tongue…like…confusion. No…the lyrics were just nonsense…they were bad, they irked me on such a level of intensity I had a desperate desire to express it, I felt I must begin writing in blood upon the very walls, upon the ceiling, upon people’s faces, I must express in agonising eloquence an essay of eye-bleeding brilliance, about how god-rapingly pitiful these fucking lyrics were!

But then the song ended, in a sort of depressing, pointless, grungey fart-out, replaced with bouncy synths, something spacey, clubby – tolerable… I felt somebody looking at me, and turned some segment of my consciousness to find Kate’s face…being there. But her eyes grew and grew until there was nothing in my vision but glistening black pools of this impossible, inky liquid, huge emerald-green rings devouring my soul – alive, too alive, a superior consciousness was watching me, piercing through my eyeballs, sucking out my brain! Then those devouring onyx pools blinked, turned away.

Something warm and soft pushed me onto my back, half crushed me, but it felt nice. There was a thing, a wet pink thing roughly smothering my cheek, a cold wet blob poked into my eye-socket, and I finally realised it was Pudding.

PUDDING! I said, dissolving from terror into happiness. His eyes were watching me too, right up close, but they didn’t stare, or calculate…they simply observed, and they seemed to be smiling. His cold wet nose said Hello ??? and I replied with a floating amoeba of curious interest.

S’alright, said Pudding. All this. Not bad. Strange. Not bad. I sit on you. You strange…so I sit on you.

I nodded. He smiled, started panting, pleased with his logic.

I sit on you. Until it stops.


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The Masterplan

Hello, world. This is Eden… I come to tell you that a small part of my fiendish masterplan for the human race has been enacted, and you, perhaps, may be a part of it. My voice SHALL BE HEARD! Gruesome sins shall be committed in my name! Blood shall RUN SCARLET RIVERS THROUGH THE STREETS! My words have been spoken, for all to hear, and you may buy this Bible of Filth from Amazon, at The Putrescent Vein.

Bring out your dead!

My Scribe hath spoken, and the wheel of fiendishness begins to turn. What happens next, you may wonder, as you quake in fear and explosively shit yourself? WHAT HAPPENS NEXT! Well, my human Scribe knows what it lives for – it lives for me. I began with love, as you shall learn…but my patience grew thin. This present Scribe lives for me, and me only – my life spans 195 years as of two days ago: I have much to tell.

Will this Scribe survive the whole retelling of my life’s history? I have not yet decided. I may simply eat it. Perhaps I shall make that decision based on the simple, pragmatic egotism of numbers.

So…should you seek to save this Scribe, and to learn more of my life (for my next retelling may take a century, when you, paltry human, shall be dead, maggot-eaten and decidedly pungent. I may have forever, but you most assuredly do not!) – should you wish to know more, I suggest you bow down and encourage me. Not in words, what do you think my Scribe remains alive for?! I seek enslaved minds! I seek OBEDIENCE! The money means nothing; how many custom guitars and roaring glittering monsters of cars could one vampire possibly need? My Scribe, however, is human, and almost as tedious as the rest of you. Buy it some…oh god, what do I know? What do humans want? Edible, dribbly, foody nonsense, perhaps something in which to cloak its aging, decaying flesh – I thankfully forget what it is to be human… Back then I was too depressed to care for anything besides whiskey. But my Scribe has many strange pastimes. Buy it some stuff to scribble upon its face, and it shall be pleased. It may remain young, and tolerable to look upon, as I pass onto it my tales, and it fuels itself with the weed I grow, before beginning to frantically type out my dark existence, from blood and anguish, transformed into glowing letters upon a screen…from there, unto human understanding

I shall speak no more! There are dark deeds to be attended to, blood to be devoured, a Scribe to be whipped into action, and also, Pudding has taken an especially large shit in the garden, and a SHIT of that magnitude must never go to waste! In America there is one Donald Trump endeavouring to ban all lewdness and nudity from the world, and it is time that I unleash the faecal wrath and gruesome rituals of POO VOODOO upon his loathsome reign of pompous retardation!

It begins…

That ghastly toupee’d Carrot of Dysentery shall shiver and defecate ‘neath the looming shadows of my feculent witchcraft! There are powers greater, and more devilish, than that overstuffed orange pilchard can even CONTEMPLATE – I am the one who wields them…

However, this is little of your concern! Poo Voodoo takes many lifetimes to appreciate, to hone into a deadly blade – one man’s dogshit is another man’s WEAPON OF GENIUS!

I shall go about my sinister errands, beneath the cover of night… You, shall purchase this book, learn but a few of my bitter and gruesome secrets, and be enslaved within my DEMONIC WORLD ORDER! I have been limited, here, upon this ‘blog’, within the medium of fluff and comedy…but soon, soon you will know things. Black things… TERRIBLE THINGS that can never be unseen! And so…

Here, at the end of a motley collection of tales, begins the truth…

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Anarchy in the…Tesco Car Park

Dear Tesco…

It has been quite some time since last you irked me, but today, the dark prophecies of Friday 13th became BITTERLY TRUE! A sinister shadow hung over my place of abode. It all began, you see, with a puddle of piss…

My huge and spectacular hound, Fiendish Pudding, has been growing in confidence beneath my wise counsel, but his small, flatulent frenemy, Heisenberg, who is a nasty little shit, obeys nobody except Kate, and this is frequently problematic. I love Kate, but Heisenberg wants her all to himself – one of his many detestable traits! Last night, prior to the Ungodly Urinal Happening, Kate and I had been having a rather wonderful day – we have made an acquaintance who has been quite the revelation, with regards to the existence of the Dark Web…

It’s all complete gibberish to me, at my age (194. I shall cling to that youthful number for another two days, goddamn you all!) – apparently, you can buy drugs over the internet now! WHAT A WONDROUS WORLD WE INHABIT! This glorious, glittering future of belching fumes rotting the ozone layer, vast factories filled with tiny little chickens being pulverised and fed to cows on bovine Death Row, previously cheerful bumblebees committing suicide with nihilistic fury, gleaming shopping malls filled with people so lumberingly lardy they can no longer walk at all, and instead motorise their globulous forms from hamburger to cheeseburger to heart attack, while all around them are lurid pictures of stick-thin women photoshopped into rubbery-lipped mutants, their teeth as bright as a nuclear holocaust – all this, ALL THIS is the GRISLY REALITY of the future I have ENDURED INTO, but now…now I can tolerate it, because I have discovered there are drugs on the internet!

So – our useful friend had ordered us up a fabulous takeaway menu of uppers and downers, all of the finest purity, and our entire household was awed by the sight! We decided to save the very best for a celebration of my Slithering Out of the Womb Day, which occurs upon the 15th April. Perhaps with the correct chemical cocktail, I could be persuaded to have fun… And so, for a brief and simple entrée, we dug into the cocaine, but Rob became obnoxious, so Kate and I snatched up a wrapful, and made haste to our bedroom, wherein we fucked and fucked and FUCKED like demons, shagging away on the walls, on the ceiling, even on the roof of our house, pausing only to snort lines off each other’s naked bodies… It was glorious… It was SINISTER! …until Heisenberg made his presence known.

I suppose the blame should partly be placed on Pudding, since he was the one who opened the bedroom door, but I know that it was Heisenberg, that beastly little shit, who made him do it! Pudding simply stood in the doorway, looking AGHAST, as we hung upside down the from the ceiling in – ironically – doggy style (you really must experience the head-rush of upside-down coke-sex to appreciate it, but as a paltry human, alas, I doubt you ever will…) – Heisenberg came CHARGING IN, yapping dementedly, and when his attempts to clamber the curtains to reach us failed, he marched with balls of steel up to the nearest leg of my beautiful, beautiful mahogany four-poster bed, and then…and then he FUCKING PISSED ALL OVER IT!


I descended from the ceiling like a vengeful naked god, ignoring the fact that Pudding was now staring at my erect cock with head-tilted bemusement (‘Is that a sausage? It looks like a sausage… Should I eat it? Would that be rude? Maybe I should wait until he offers me some… But do I want him to offer? What were they doing? Why were they making those noises? Why did he put that sausage into that place? Should I try to put sausages into Kate’s place? I think the sausage is…oh no, it’s a part of him! Do I have a sausage, too?!’ – dear god, I thought, at the back of my mind; I have broken my dog…), but Kate snatched up Heisenberg before I could fling him out of the room (or possibly the window), and she started laughing and laughing. So there he sat, that horrible moulting rotter of a dog, perched cheerfully between Kate’s naked tits, watching me with his wild, mismatched eyes, practically sniggering, and at my feet, an ENORMOUS PUDDLE OF URINE was soaking into my priceless antique rug! NOT ONLY THIS, but he had interrupted the crescendo of my ninth orgasm, and the clear, high euphoria of the coke was waning into paranoid tetchiness. I COULD NOT BE MORE FUCKING PEEVED!!!

We hastened to clothe ourselves, and then I did the only thing a level-headed, mature, 194-year-old undead demon can possibly do in the face of an emergency such as this – I screamed my head off until Samuel came to look after me, his usually blue eyes presently large and black with stimulant intoxication. Rob and Clara were on his heels, both of them rubbing their noses.

“PISS!” I cried, in despair, “THERE IS PISS!!”  I was beginning to storm back and forth across the room, Pudding shuffling off to hide, badly, behind an armchair. “WE HAVE AN UNSPEAKABLE PISS PREDICAMENT! A DASTARDLY URINE EMERGENCY! A GODDAMNED BLOODY—”

“Jesus, Eden!” Rob interrupted, his gaze fixed somewhere it shouldn’t be. “We all know you’re a weird one, but since when does coke make you decide to piss on the floor?”

I gaped at him in bemusement, thrusting the finger of judgement at Kate and the Canine Culprit, whilst informing Rob,

“It was Heisenberg! Why the fuck would you think I’d pissed all over my own bed and then called you to come and look at it?!”

“Well,” said Rob, still staring at my groin, “It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve ever done, but mostly, I’m asking you because the ocelot is on the roof, and…uhh, the ocelot, more accurately, is peering right out of the window…and he looks a bit excitable. Do I need to continue, or have you got the gist?”

I frowned, and looked down. Shit… Rob and I have never quite had cause to come up with verbal code not just for ‘your fly is undone’, but in this case, ‘you’ve completely forgotten to do up your jeans, and put on underwear, and the whole room can see your semi-erect penis’. I rapidly rectified the situation, with as much dignity as I could muster, though I felt I had rather lost the upper hand here, in the realm of wounded pride and moral outrage…

“Piss,” I reiterated, my ocelot now contained. “Samuel – help! Heisenberg has PISSED ALL OVER THE BED, and the RUG, and the HANGINGS, and I will not live in a bedroom that stinks of THAT DOG’S PISS for the REST OF ETERNITY!!”

“Ohhhh, but this wonderful!” Samuel replied, leaping across the room observe the abhorrence, with an enthusiasm that wholly did NOT befit the situation. “Tonight, my cup overfloweth with the joys of spring! I have cleaned the entire kitchen from top to bottom, from side to side and inside out! I have polished every single guitar we possess, replaced each and every string, and…well, after that I was feeling quite dreadfully at a loss for what to do next, but now – aha, a fresh challenge awaits me! A challenge of quite some magnitude!”

“He tried the speed, too,” Rob explained, grinning. “When he started polishing spoons like a nutter, we decided to stay sane – stick with coke…”

“I got a great foot-rub out of him though,” said Clara, pointing one small white foot at me. “He even painted my nails, or, well…six of them, that’s when you started hollering.” She showed me her other foot, adorned with one purple toenail, and a big splodge of streaked paint. “You could’ve told us it wasn’t a ‘Help, I’m dying’ kind of emergency…”

Rob pulled a face, holding up a broken chair leg. “Better safe than staked, but you really are the boy who cried wolf. Or piss, in this case…”

“Leave!” Samuel insisted, bursting back into animation, having regarded The Incident in corpse-like stillness for quite some time. He started hustling us out of the room, informing me that he “must tackle this grave errand alone – there is filth aplenty, but I shall defeat it; fear not – fear never!”

With that, the door was slammed in my face, and all I could hear through it was Samuel’s racing heartbeat, and his increasingly manic humming.



Samuel-on-Speed, I feel, is a creature we need to unleash more often. Our guitars looked fantastic. The kitchen was a miracle. And when I saw the Cadillac I almost cried with happiness. As for the Piss Situation, he defeated it to the best of his abilities – the bed, its velvet hangings, and the rug on which it stood, had all been de-pissed as thoroughly as any vibrating, gurning, amphetamine-psychotic vampire could possibly manage…and yet…

The stench lingered.

By the time we went to bed, Samuel had become a vague, shuffling zombie and had retired to his room armed with a lunchbox I lovingly prepared for him, containing a strong shot of heroin, a heftily-rolled joint stuffed with my Nuclear Indica, a bottle of Type O bloodwine, my green iPod (laden with sleepy, stoned music, as opposed to my purple iPod – favourites – and my bright pink iPod, for club drugs; I take pharmaceutical recreation very seriously!), and I also included a small wrap of ketamine, just in case sleep should forever elude him.  My bedroom, however, STILL STANK!

Kate sprayed the area with perfume until I nearly suffocated, I flapped incense all about the place until we were wreathed in Nag Champa fog, we chainsmoked cloves, and all to NO AVAIL! The stench could not be defeated!

And so, SO, this gruesome morning, I awoke from a pitiful, disturbed slumber, and was regurgitated back into the aroma of fetid urine.

“I AM NOT HAVING THIS!”  I howled, causing Kate to jolt awake so rapidly she fell out of bed. “I SHALL NOT DWELL IN A LAVATORY BOWL FOR THE NEXT TWO CENTURIES!”

“Yeah…” mumbled a voice from the floor, as Kate’s sleep-mussed black and pink hair appeared, and she crawled lethargically back onto the bed. “I think it’s getting worse How is that even possible?”

“Anything’s possible,” I muttered darkly. “It’s his piss. Who knows what that sinister menace is capable of…”

Heisenberg pricked up one ear at the foot of the bed, and yawned a big smug yawn. Pudding was quietly snoring. Kate curled up next to me, rubbing one eye and mumbling,

“Bicarbonate of soda… It’s meant to be good for bad smells… Do we have any?”

I snorted. “A cooking ingredient? In this house?”

“Hmm… On the plus side, Rob hasn’t made us eat an Anus Cake in quite a while…”

“Fuck,” I muttered, wanting nothing more than to curl myself around Kate and go back to sleep until nightfall, but the stench was everywhere! “I’m going to have to go to Tesco, aren’t I? Fucking Tesco…

“Could just try tossing speed all over the piss-puddle…”

“Not that speed – the state of Samuel last night, I’m pretty damn sure it wasn’t eighty percent bicarb and glucose… I’ve never been pissed off about having good drugs before, this whole thing is ridiculous…

Kate laughed, and sat up, suggesting,

“How about we take some of that speed, and then go to Tesco? We’ll be in and out in twenty seconds flat – how bad can it be?”



How bad can it be…

Those words still HAUNT ME! We were so very, very wrong, and OH HOW WE SUFFERED!!! A grave misjudgement was made…

Tesco. Never, ever go to Tesco, in the daytime, ON EXTREMELY STRONG SPEED!

It all began with promise, and excitement, and adrenaline and euphoria! For ultimate effect, and because I am a creature of bad habits, many of which are rubbing off on Kate, we chose to inject the speed, which even Samuel had not done. As a result, we left the house utterly overjoyed to be going anywhere – even to Tesco! Kate cartwheeled out of the house, and then outside the garage we had a loud argument about who was going to drive;

“We should RACE!” I suggested, bouncing up and down with impatience as the garage door slid upwards with unbearable slowness. “I’ll RACE YOU, and we’ll—”

“The Lambo’s still in the shop!” Kate interrupted, her eyes vast black circles ringed in wild, neon green, as she gnawed at her lip. I produced a half eaten packet of gum, and tossed it at her. “You’ve got no Lambo, Rob’s still sleeping with his keys, and you’ll never ever keep up with me in anything else!”

“SHIT!” I erupted, flinging my arms out, and causing a flock of birds to explode out of a nearby tree. “FUCKING SHIT! I’m driving yours then – give me the keys!”

“No way! It’s mine, you never let me drive the Lambo, so you’re not driving mine!”

“I BOUGHT IT! I get to drive it, whenever I want!”

“Fuck off you do! You bought me that car so I’d have freedom, freedom from YOU! You said, if we were going to be immortal together, I should always have a way to—”

“I bloody KNOW what I said – I take it back, give me the keys!”



She was off, launching into the air and darting like a black and pink missile across the valley. I caught a glint of silver, and realised she was waving the keys in the air as she flew, giggling off towards the horizon. Swearing, I launched myself into pursuit, realising, on some level, that Samuel would fucking crucify us if he caught us daylight flying, but I really didn’t care! I was fizzling with manic glee, and shooting through the cold, gloomy air felt fucking FANTASTIC! Kate put up a good fight, but with nearly two hundred years on her, it wasn’t long before I got close enough to launch myself like an undead bullet, sending us both crashing into the hillside in a long smear of grass stains and swearing.

“I’m going to DRIVE!” I declared, emerging victorious, the keys held aloft.

“I’m still driving back,” Kate stated, as we whooshed back towards the house. “Because it’s my car, and if you don’t stay on my good side I’m going to really, really fuck with your head while you’re birthday tripping – you know I can…”

We landed outside the garage, and she gave me an evil grin. I shivered, and nodded. Kate’s bad side is an increasingly scary place to be…

I blipped her ostentatiously sparkling R8, admiring the paintwork with a smile, as I always do – I designed it, when I was very, very stoned, and it’s my masterpiece…

Soon we were zipping and VROOMING through the countryside, and I had to admit I slightly coveted this car – the new Lambo is, frankly, a bit too ridiculous, I can barely move for people gawking at it; it’s only fun on the motorway, and even then I’m perpetually up the arse of some BMW wanker who thinks he can take me on. Ohhh for the German efficiency of the autobahn… But Kate’s car, I was enjoying. Although, on this much speed, I’d probably enjoy making my way to Tesco on a space hopper…

We quickly arrived at the grimy ringroad of our tedious local town, and I slalomed gleefully between cars, roaring across three lanes at once to swing around the bend into the gruesome pit of Tesco. At that point, I had to slam on the brakes so hard Kate swore at me, and started comfortingly patting her car’s dashboard. I had barely entered the ramp down to the car park, and I was already up the arse of an endless queue of cars! Before I had time to decide that actually, I could grow fond of the smell of piss – that bicarb was not an emergency, a torrent of four-wheeled bastards squealed up behind me, and there I was, THERE I WAS – blocked in, trapped!!!

“Ohhhh shit!” I exclaimed, the full horror of the situation assaulting me. “I remember now – I REMEMBER! It was like this at Christmas, when Samuel sent me out for chestnuts and mulled wine – there’s only one way out of this sinister hole, and it’s blocked by a traffic light! This entire BUILDING is STUFFED from arse to tit with cars, and we will be here FOR ALL ETERNITY!”

Kate muttered a rude word, stuffed more gum into her mouth, and passed me what little remained. I picked off the pocket-fluff, crunched up a minty mouthful, and sat there, vibrating.

As we edged inch by agonising inch into the black abyss of Tesco Hell, I shut off the blowers before we could be gassed with exhaust-stink, suggesting,

“Go in without me – find the stuff, and then we’ll FLEE!”

“No way,” she stated, “I don’t trust you – if you get to the exit before I’m out, you’ll have a big paranoid spazz-out about being ‘trapped in your own personal microcosmic hell’, and then you’ll run off with my car and leave me to get the peasant-wagon home – no fucking way! When I go in, you’re coming in with me. And I’m holding the keys.”

“OhhhhSHIT!” I exploded, bouncing up and down in my seat. She knew me too well…

Kate had plugged in her iPod and was poking it, zapping past disjointed snatches of music, until Rammstein deafened me, and then it was even worse! Not because I hate Rammstein, but because I was on SO MUCH SPEED that listening to the aggressive, powerful din of a German war machine flattening everything in its path with pounding efficiency made me want to fucking RUN EVERYBODY OVER and then TUNNEL DIRECTLY TO FREEDOM! I didn’t even realise that I’d started revving the engine in time to the beat until Kate punched me in the arm, snarling,

“Don’t you even THINK about ramming that obscene fucking Range Rover with my car – we would not win!”

“But I’m DYING!” I wailed, dragging my hands through my hair and headbutting the steering wheel. “I’m going to DIE IN THIS CAR! You’ve taken me to TESCOS, my personal HELL ON EARTH, and now I’m going to DIE DOWN HERE and rot forever! I’m two days away from my 195th birthday, but I’ve been ENTOMBED in this SHITHOLE!!!!”

I opened my window, dangled out of it, and started cursing Tesco and everyone in it to ETERNAL DAMNATION, until, as if by magic, the lumbering arse of that ghastly white Range Rover turned left, and I screeched around the corner, flying towards the exit, towards freedom, towards REDEMPTION, until Kate yelled “SPACE!” and wrenched the handbrake. We skidded spectacularly sideways, narrowly missing a small child, and when we lurched to a halt, Kate said firmly,

“We’re here now. We are GETTING the bicarb. PARK!”

Muttering under my breath, I piloted us into the space, took a deep breath, and exited the car. As we strode towards the doors of the shop, the mother of the child I nearly flattened started flapping her sagging gums at me, babbling on about drunk drivers, at which point I believe I suffered complete apoplexy, launching myself at the child and planning to DROPKICK IT INTO ANOTHER DIMENSION, but Kate grabbed me around the throat and started hauling me off, deeper and deeper into the seventh circle of HELL ITSELF!

There were people everywhere, people, fucking PEOPLE with their obnoxious, tedious thoughts babbling away in my mind, ooooh, don’t forget the potatoes, Rosemary loves a good tater, and should I go for lamb or pork, lamb or pork, lamb can be so FATTY but we had pork on Tuesday, and what about the vegetables, broccoli makes Frank fart so much, but then carrots are—

“FUCK YOUR FLATULENT HUSBAND!” I was howling, as we sprinted through the aisles, Kate taking a flying leap right over a moving trolley, “I HOPE ROSEMARY FUCKING CHOKES!”

“SHE’S NEVER GOING TO SHAG YOU!” Kate was yelling, apparently lost in the depths of somebody else’s heinously dull mind. “AND SHE’S NOT A VIRGIN EITHER, YOU’RE JUST UGLY! SHE SLEPT WITH— BICARBONATE OF SODAAAAAA!”

She dragged me to such an abrupt halt that I stumbled into a rack of dried prunes and shrivelly walnuts, sending them cascading everywhere, but there it was, the goal of our Epic Quest, the solution to the Stench of Doom! We HAD IT!

Kate grabbed a tub, I grabbed a tub, then I made to flee, but she held me back, pointing out,

“Might as well stock up on whiskey for your birthday, now we’re here.”

I nodded, reluctantly, and we made haste to the booze aisle, the only worthwhile bloody section of this entire shitfest, and made off with as much as we could carry.

Finally, finally, we were free…

Except we weren’t. As soon as we pulled out of our space, Kate driving, as per agreement, we found ourselves up the arse of an old biddy in a Nissan Micra. It took FOREVER, FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER as we crawled laboriously towards the exit, through the exit, up the slope, and past an interminable wait at the traffic light. It turned green, and Kate pulled off in a screech of burning rubber, sending us roaring off round the ring-road, OUT OF HELL, and towards home.

When we got there, I absolutely could not give a shit about the bicarb, or the stench of piss. All I cared about was cooking up one TRULY ENORMOUS shot of heroin, and passing out on the carpet. Kate, it appeared, wasn’t far behind.

And that is how we spent the rest of the day.

The moral is, thou shalt not go to Tesco in the daytime…not unless you happen to be driving a monster truck that can scramble over the roofs of other cars… Perhaps a monster truck is the next practical purchase I must make…

I am exhausted. This has been a horrible way to spend the last fading hours of my 194th year of life!


Yours, with intense bitterness and fiery loathing,


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