A Vampire’s Dating Profile…

Hello world – this is Eden, and I am all alone… Kate is off at some ghastly family affair, and as usual I am not in the mood for spending time in the company of mortals that I cannot eat, and also, as an extra kick in the bollocks, I would have to be polite to these mortals, and sober around them. So FUCK THAT, thought I!! Fuck it right to hell! I’m staying here and getting wrecked! I have some heroin fresh from our little trip to America (New Jersey is a hole, but it’s on the way home and it really does serve up some fine dope. We had many adventures, on our travels, but there’s no time for those tales now, I’m on a crusade here!), so, I have heroin, I have whiskey, I know exactly which sock Rob keeps his cocaine in, and naturally, my rolling tin is stuffed to the gills with weed. Damn good weed too, again from our trip to the USA. Legalised weed, for fuck’s sake! In America, the land of slavery, shitty healthcare, racist shootings, Trump, and Aryan Jesus! So if it’s possible there, why in buggery-fuck’s name don’t we have this bollocks here?! It’s never happening under Thatcher v2, is it? No matter how fabulous her shoes may be, Theresa May is a fascist ANUS! However, I refuse to get into yet more politics on Kate’s blog, but I have some Banana Skunk, some Blue Tornado, and a little Grapevine Blast-Off. I feel we should start with the latter – I want to be BLASTED OFF! (or sucked off…or both…)

Anyway, Kate has assigned me a Task for the night, to keep me away from evil deeds… Tonight, I am to pretend that I am a sad, masturbating little singleton (and trust me, as an 193 year old vampire – despite what the media has told you about our sordid sex lives, there is a lot of being single and sexually frustrated in almost two centuries of un-life, no matter how spectacular, sinister and glorious your visage! We have a heightened sex drive, might I add, and it is severely awkward keeping your immortality a secret with casual sexual partners, so YES, I have had a WANK or five in my long, long life! And I still haven’t gone BLIND, no matter what they preached in my youth! Oh, never touch thyself in rude places, my boy, never eye up a woman’s lewd ankle, never draw a crude rendition of a breast and then spank thy monkey, or thou shalt go BLIND and grow hairy palms, such that everybody shalt know how SINFUL thou art! Christ…I grew up with a devoutly Christian mother – why do think I’m called Eden? Yes, it’s my real name – my elder sister was named Mary, so I had to confess to spanking my monkey in a strange little priest-box many a time. Sometimes I heard his breathing grow heavier, once I even heard the unbuttoning of trousers, followed by skin-on-skin slapping and slipping and heavy breathing as he probed me for details – How long for? Did you salivate on your cock? Was it hard? Tell me, how hard was your cock? How long did you masturbate for? Are you fully grown? Did you ejaculate? FUCK the church, but not literally, because they’d like it far too much! I probably look young enough still for them to enjoy it – I was turned at 24 and get ID’d every time I buy alcohol or Rizlas. Give them a wrinkly old man, slip him some Viagra, and let him bugger THEM for a change!).

SO, my project for tonight is to create a dating profile for myself. I am to use OkCupid as my model, and I am to answer all the questions. Kate told me it would be fun but personally I think she just wants to bugger a window into my soul, not that she doesn’t know everything about me already…admittedly it was unfair – I met her when she was mortal, and I (sorry Kate) perved on all her thoughts. So, she either wants to sodomise my soul, or she simply wants to keep me away from injecting Rob’s cocaine… Nonetheless, let us toke some Blast-Off, and get going!

Right, joint rolled, lighter sparked, away we go! BLAST OFF!



Username: MidnightEden


My self-summary

Oh Christ, my first OkCupid browse brings me to a woman who announces she “couldn’t live without God” O.o I may be out of my depth already. The computer can’t decide whether I’m a man or woman, straight or gay, so I had a little browse of an earnest chap in spectacles who thinks “this profile thing is just weird” – I wholly agree, old bean, I wholly agree. However, off we go regardless. My self summary:

HELLO, horny females! I am, by fortune or misfortune, an undead 193 year old stoned-as-fuck vampire junkie, and I am naturally QUITE the catch!

I live with…umm…three and a half other vampires, in a sprawling, antiquated mansion in the rugged hills of Clent, which currently possesses a desperately annoying drippy tap that I can’t be fucked doing anything about – heroin does tend to sap one’s motivation. My family consists of Rob, a green-mohicaned, ring-through-the-nose punk who leaves dead girls sliced up in bathtubs and slimy anal beads in my bed. God only knows why I’ve tolerated him since I was six years old. Then there’s Clara, Rob’s girlfriend (and really, WHY?! I wooed her first, but she just kicked me in the bollocks! And then she goes on to tolerate Rob?!), Clara has long, wavy red hair and the biggest tits you’ve ever seen in your life – they’re (Rob and Clara, not her tits!) coming up to a century together and I still have moments where I just zone out and stare at those enormous, white, bouncing, pert tit—umm…I don’t want another stiletto to the nuts, so we shall be MOVING ON! We also have Samuel, our maker, who has black hair and sharp, piercing blue eyes that see everything, every sin, he tried to chop off Rob’s head back in 1858, the year of the Great Stink. Appropriate that Rob, the foulest of the foul, should be turned in the foulest year in London’s recent history (YES IT IS FUCKING RECENT! I AM NOT OLD!! I DON’T REMEMBER EITHER PLAGUE SO I AM YOUNG!), being so utterly foul himself… Then there’s my half a housemate. My girlfriend has, just for tonight and this profile, been rendered invisible, and I shall say no more, but when she regains her corporate body, we will have the best sex you can possibly imagine. Vampires have many talents, *stoned winkyface* 😉

So, I suppose, to move onto myself, now that I have set the scene, I am an irksome two inches beneath six foot (Rob is six foot one, just to make me really hate him…), extremely thin, pale, with hair that is naturally black, but dyed with a blue sheen whenever I can be fucking bothered with that annoying mess of hair-dye, and it is either styled into a demented spiky hedgehog or hanging long and tangled because I simply cannot be fucked with it at all (it grows excessively, inhumanly quickly – I died as an angsty alcoholic, and haircuts were simply not a priority, nor did I care for the opinions of high society, who had long since shunned me. I STILL BEAR A GRUDGE! Or, well…here’s a lovely thought – all those people are DEAD IN THEIR GRAVES now, friends and enemies alike, as I walk on through the world, unchanged and beautiful! That is delightful 😉 ). My eyes were once brown, as a mortal, but since my death, they fade outwards into a bright, bright green, ringed in black, as all vampire eyes are.

My hobbies include heroin, weed, whiskey, having lots of noisy sex, NOT being fucked up the arse, driving far too fast in a ludicrously expensive car (or poodling along to Jerry Lee Lewis in our glorious, sparkling purple ’59 Cadillac, tail-fins and all. God, I love that car!), swimming in the pool we’ve finally convinced Samuel to install (it’s an indoor pool, naturally, because England has vile weather, and that meant we had to install a sort of conservatory onto the back of our antiquated property. I suppose it is a little blasphemous, considering that we live in a house that the National Trust has several times tried to buy and preserve. Kings have visited here many centuries before we moved in, but fuck OFF – this is our house now! It makes us feel comfortable, this ancient mansion, back in our own space and time… And yet, the pool – who doesn’t like bobbing about in a warm, clean pool, utterly naked on a blow up bed with a cocktail and a beautiful girl or two?). Samuel has an irrational hatred of conservatories. And why? It’s sensible, I think, not wholly frivolous, not all about us tearing up this almost-castle that has stood for so long – but he feels it’s a weakness, an easy attack point to our house, because glass breaks easily. As such, we have a locked, barred door between the pool and the house, the pool a glorious warm bath in its steaming glass conservatory. I suppose it’s logical, things have attacked us here, but they got in despite our extreme safety doors at the front (nobody wants to live in a prison, and windows will always be a weakness, yet a necessity… Good god those undead, rotting, yet sentient creatures were unbelievably disturbing, but this too, is a tale for another day, and a better writer than I… Kate will tell you that tale, eventually, and many others…). I am rambling, my apologies. No, I don’t apologise – I would never apologise for very good weed, the sort of weed that sends you off on surreal tangents! Goddamnit Theresa May, get THIS SHIT SORTED OUT!! LEGALISE WEED! I may be a vampire but I could easily fake…hmm…well, I do legitimately have PTSD, it’s a little unavoidable after being so long alive and the literal tortures I have endured (we won, though I nearly died, escaping it by inches. My nemesis, his head burned in my fire. Amusing that an elderly couple currently rent that old London property of ours, and have no idea that the head of an ancient, hideous vampire once burned upon their bedroom fire. I remember his dried-out brain charring first, his eyeballs flaring, sparking, burning, the fire-light shining through the empty sockets of his skull. They shall never know 😉 )

Other hobbies of mine? Well, I like riding horses, I like making music, I play guitar and sing. Then, naturally, I like eating people! When we went on tour I saw a girl in a t-shirt saying ‘EAT ME, EDEN!’ and I fulfilled her wish backstage after the gig, leaving her just about alive, but when I got back to the hotel I realised she perhaps meant her pussy, not her blood. Awkward…


What I’m doing with my life

SOD ALL! Absolutely SOD ALL! And it’s glorious  😀

I come from an aristocratic family – as such, I have done sod all for my entire, and extended, life, unless you count self destruction as a job, in which case I have been gainfully employed since I was 22. As I am barred from mentioning my presently invisible girlfriend Kate on this profile, that I must be Properly Single, I can say little more…

Wait, no, what am I doing with my life? Well, I am at perpetual war with Rob! It is my raison d’etre to make that bastard SUFFER, and the feeling is mutual! He may be my best friend, but there are only so many greased up anal beads and butt-plugs left in your bed, and frogs in your shoes that one can tolerate before retaliating with an EXTREMELY cunning plan! I invented my own religion, many decades ago, which I dub Poo Voodoo, and I use it in vengeance on a frequent basis! I pluck a dog shit from the countryside, place it in a box, tie it in loving ribbons, and bequeath it to my enemy! Nobody fucks with a DOG SHIT SENDER!!! This is only the base level of my religion – I shall require extreme dedication before I tell you more…

Oh, and naturally I have to mention eating people for a second (third? God, I have no idea, this weed is pretty respectable. Well done America, you did something right. Trump will no doubt ban it within six months, so I suppose we’d better fly back over and stock up soon…) – so, to reiterate, for a ???? time, eating people is fantastic – I highly recommend it! If you’re a vampire, anyway. Kate was strange; she enjoyed human blood even as a mortal, she is even weirder than me…but once you’re a vampire, the taste changes…everything changes; Kate, naturally, went wild for it. Oh shit, bollocks and fuck, I’m sorry, she doesn’t exist. This is an invisible fantasy until, *checks watch*, until she returns home, in around 45 minutes. Then we’re getting hardcore kinky in here! (I love you, spirit girl, say no more… It’ll be even better when your annoying family members are dead and you’re all ours, though you may not agree…)

SO, as I mentioned, we are in a band, but can never become famous, lest they notice that we end up seventy years old and I still look 24. So, we change our band’s name constantly. Neon Midnight is our true name, but generally we go by any old shite, from Shitbox Polo to the Fangbangers to The Nameless. So, we keep a low profile, but trust me, and this gives me great pleasure, we overshadow every band we support – it comes with the territory. Our fingers move faster, our voices are impossible, and we have over half a century of practice. We shit all over every band we support! 😉



I’m really good at

EVERYTHING! 😀 Well, except sobriety, I am terrible at sobriety and I do not regret a th— well, alright, I regret many things, but nonetheless, drugs are my love, just as much as my invisible girlfriend is my love…  But despite my junkie alcoholic fuck uppery, I will give you the best sex of your life, and then feed your post-orgasmic hunger with… Well, shit, I can’t really cook, I’m afraid; grew up with servants and now I live on blood, so I’ll fuck you half to death and then…to be frank, when we’ve both cummed about a gallon of bliss, I’ll leave you with a Pot Noodle and a few soggy condoms, as a memoir of our glorious, Earth-shattering intercourse. Is that passable?

I already mentioned our music, but to reiterate, for ROB THE BASTARD, I am the lead singer AND the lead guitarist, and you try doing that shit all at once at our level of complexity! Like I said – half a century of practice – I’ll surpass anything you’ve ever seen in your life, and I am not tooting my own fart-trombone! I’ll play for you while you gobble up that post-sex Pot Noodle. You’ll come in your pants, regardless of slurping up noodles, then I’ll order you a taxi to piss off in, and my invisible girlfriend shall take me back to bed for even better sex than any mortal could ever provide!



Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Oh, for fuck’s sake, could this be ANY more Americanised? LEARN TO SPELL, YOU HEATHEN DUMP-TRUCK, and they’re “films and TV”, not movies and shows! NOW YOU KNOW!

There is far too much to list here – where do I even begin?!

Alright – our whole family undeniably love everything about us, our species, vampires – soap operas for the undead are always appreciated in this household, even if we spend the entire thing hollering at the television “BULLSHIT! This is BULLSHIT!”, or in the case of the Vampire Diaries, “JUST GET ON WITH IT! FUCK HIM RIGHT NOW! CHAIN HIM TO THE BED AND FUCK HIM! AND THEN EAT HIM! KATHERINE WAS FAR MORE FUN than Elena anyway!”. Besides the vampires, Breaking Bad is fantastic, and Kate shares my obsession. We spent hours debating theories, and now we watch it all the way through at least once a year. Oops, shit, sorry, she’s invisible right now, isn’t she? Ok, I watch it alone then, constantly, like a sad old bastard, masturbating over Jessie’s goth girlfriend…

Music…dear God… Well, let’s keep this brief, if at all possible – I latched onto goth in the early 80’s and never quite moved on. I appreciate some punk, courtesy of Rob, particularly female-led, so long as they sound like a snarling Brody Dalle (or like my invisible girlfriend, who has sandpaper for a singing voice, an effortless, soaring, rasping scream, she kicks some serious shit and has had endless record deal offers – if Samuel stopped slapping us down, I’d let her conquer the world with her violent, beautiful, shredded and impossible voice….), and not like Pussy Riot, who just yell annoyingly and angrily into microphones like a pissed off Catholic girlfriend who just discovered I’m a vampire. Been there, done that, my mortal friends – it wasn’t fun, and it isn’t music – I vastly appreciate the sentiment and political power of Pussy Riot and their crusade, but dear god, ladies, find yourself a lead screamer who can actually scream – when you collaborated with The Jack Wood it was fabulous. That’s what you need, should you desire to conquer hearts and minds, as you utterly deserve to. Find someone like Jack Wood’s singer, permanently – sexy, powerful, a screamer, a music-feeler, swaying and kicking and letting loose….

I hate the direction goth is taking, and can rarely be fucked with the festivals these days unless Samuel drags me there because he wants to meet one of his ‘friends’, as he calls them (Samuel is obsessed with Youtube. We utterly despair. Egotistical twats talking to themselves about complete bollocks in a lonesome bedroom (I talk to myself all the time, but at least I don’t sell my ramblings to the internet! “Where the FUCK is my other sock?! Who the FUCK is stealing my socks?! I am going to FUCK ROB WITH A TRAFFIC CONE!!”), or “collaborating” with some other egotistical paranoid twat in a sad attempt to amp their, umm, “fame”. Christ on a Hobnob… Samuel has plenty of real friends, INCLUDING ME, so why he insists upon hauling me out to these German festivals that stink of sausages, hairspray, sweaty men and clove cigarettes, when half the bands there now sound like static and machine guns, overlaid with the vocals of someone angrily vomiting with a sore throat – why Samuel goes just so he can meet some weird little “internet famous” ponce glued to their “selfie stick”, is utterly beyond me! Samuel is around 800 years old, attractive, living with Rob, Clara, and myself, his best friend is a nearly two thousand year old vampire currently flitting between Italy and France with his immortal boy lover; why does he need to meet these random mortals obsessed with cameras beaming back their own faces, and talking to strangers, instead of his own real life friends? I am quite content here, with my immortal family. They are all I need… Samuel is ancient. He’s going bonkers with this Youtube fad…) – so, old school goth only. Unless I’m on speed, ecstasy or coke, in which case, my principles go RIGHT out of the window, and I will dance for hours to this present day Industrial crap, until I vomit. Quite literally. And usually I vomit over some ponce in “cyberlox” and neon tights. Dear god, where has the goth scene gone? Even the ‘trad goths’ are pretentious as all sodding hell, in places, despite the fact that I literally went to the Batcave, endless times, I drink blood, I am UNDEAD and beautiful, my hair is BETTER THAN THEIRS, I’ve been reading gothic literature since its inception, etc etc. NO! Of course not! I look barely 24, so I’m a poser, naturally, despite the fact that these bouncing neon children would sneer their pierced noses at the music that really matters!

…because it does. I don’t care how much black you wear and how much metal you have in your face, if you don’t respect the actual music, you aren’t a goth. You’re a something else. Which is fine (if I’m being civil. If I’m being realistic, these bouncing neon children who think Suicide Commando and X-RX are goth, they…umm…well. I just fucking eat them, for crimes against humanity and culture! I hide their corpses from Samuel, naturally, but they disappear in the night 😉 ), be whoever you want to be, I’ll eat you regardless, but do your sodding research before you turn into a elitist bullshitting arsehole! And neon dread-falls should be punished with a hundred lashes regardless; they’re HIDEOUS!

On the other hand, I give few shits, my family are around me, but we seem to irk the goths of most areas we land in, especially America; Rob looks too punk, Clara overshadows them ALL and the girls get bitchy (Clara just laughs, hoists her enormous tits even higher, and dances like the trained stripper, poledancer and gymnast she is. Take on a pale, stunning, well-endowed redhead with a muscular punk at her side and you will always lose…), Kate is made up with more artistic skill than these bland copycat motherfuckers could possibly dream of, and me, well…I can hear their thoughts, so I’m not being vain when I say they generally want me. They’re not getting me though! We’ve had pretentious American toss-pots stride up and quiz us on songs by The Cure. We give them one strike before we either take them into the bathrooms and drain them to death (when Samuel’s not looking, naturally – egotism isn’t a sin worthy of death, to him. But IT IS TO ME!), or we simply mindfuck them to go home, toss out all their black clothes, bleach their hair blonde, and wear nothing but pink for the next decade. I enjoy these confrontations 😉 )

…so, this question intrigues me – at these festivals, do I vomit from the drugs and booze, or my allergy to the terrible, grinding industrial cybergoth music? I believe it is the latter. Drugs and booze are my friends 🙂 Returning to the subject of my favourite music, I also listen to a lot of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Billy Holiday, and whatever modern bollocks my invisible girlfriend whacks on while we fuck. I, umm, am embarrassed to confess that I’m learning to enjoy Oasis and some truly weird electronica. Digital Daggers, however, are appropriately sinister. I rather like them…

Food? Well, that’s simple – YOU!! You are my food, particularly if you’re a Type O. Red wine and whiskey also appreciated. Venison steak occasionally, and I confess that I have an awful love for macaroni cheese… Ohhhh, I could really go for some of that right now, after our time in the USA, but as I said, I am all alone, and I cannot fucking cook! Even if I could, it would never taste the way it tastes in America. I know not what alchemy those chefs work, but Jesus H Christ I could eat it forever, I’m almost literally dribbling at the thought of it! I would be one big fat spherical bastard if I was a modern-day mortal living in the USA! (which many of them are. Either that or they’re tanned like a hotdog, obsessed with stupid exercise regimes, Paleo diets, and boring as all hell…)

Can I pay you to come over and make me proper American macaroni cheese, anybody? Fucking damnit, I hate the munchies, trust American weed to make me want to eat everything in sight!



The six things I could never do without

My presently invisible girlfriend, my immortal family, BLOOD, drugs, a guitar and a mic (that’s one, fuck off), and finally, DOGS! :3


I spend a lot of time thinking about

How shit 50 Shades of Grey is. Kate insisted we watch it on DVD, for science, and we laughed our pert little arses off. “I don’t make love, Anastasia, I FUCK!!!!!!” I’ve started using that line in the bedroom whenever I want to make her laugh, and the vibrations of her laughter do lovely things while I’m…inside her… Is this too pornographic? Probably. Will Kate edit it out? I doubt it. She’s as filthy as me 😉

I also think about the fact that now my Invisible Girlfriend is an immortal, she could do so much better than me. She could find somebody functional, perfect, become a maker, or mindfuck anyone into bed – she could have anyone she liked. And me, I’m a fucked up useless junkie. How long before she gets bored? I think about that, far too much…

I also think about dogs. I think about dogs being eaten in Eastern countries. Sadly many of the vampires I know are so immoral they wouldn’t ‘t give a fuck, but I frequently contemplate rounding up a vampire army and swarming down upon that sodding dog eating festival and ripping out throats all over the damn place. Then I’d let out the caged dogs, and encourage them to eat the corpses… It would, unfortunately, cause something of a spectacle, however, because every bastard has a camera-phone these days. Samuel has made it verboten, and he is 800 years old – I cannot fight him. He would put me in The Dreaded Cage… So, all the dogs die, and I am powerless, each year. I think about that a lot. I do good, in some ways (I’ve done horrific evil too, but don’tthinkdon’tthinkaboutthat!!!!), yet NOW with these sodding CAMERAS everywhere, my slaughter-to-save good deeds are seriously difficult to achieve!!

I think, often, about the aforementioned Horrific Evil that I have done. Clara thinks I have PTSD. I hear children’s laughter and…things happen, inside my brain. It wasn’t my fault, I didn’t intend it! It just…went wrong…but those images are burned like the boiling explosions of the sun, into my scarred mind forever…

Ugh…  This is horrifically depressing. I feel like I’m seeing a psychiatrist – it’s clearly time for more smack.



On a typical Friday night I am

Lounging, naked, in bed, with my invisible girlfriend (Kate, this is DIFFICULT! You’re in every element of my life now!), having thoroughly bonked all over the room, and now we’re smoking some good strong weed, maybe shooting a little smack, watching True Blood, as I run my finger up and down her xylophone ribs, or tease her pierced nipples into peaks, or…well…go somewhere a little ruder before round two. Then perhaps we fill my vast bathtub, and float about sharing a bottle of blood-wine and a joint.

Other times, my whole family go out clubbing – a goth and rock club, none of that chavvy Broad Street nonsense, none of that techno psy-trance tedium, and we get drunk as rolling skunks, drop a few ecstasy pills or snort some coke (never both, you human muppets! I know it sounds “cool” to take as many drugs as you can, but coke and ecstasy cancel each other out – coke brings you down from ecstasy, and the latter is far superior! So cut the crap! Do your sodding research, or take the word of a wise and drug-addled immortal! Coke OR ecstasy, or ecstasy AND speed! And fuck off with your mephedrone, you tasteless little turnip! I ATE the last dealer who tried to flog me that utter shite! I have vampire senses, I hear your thoughts, I smell the drugs, and you will not fuck ME over!), and then we dance like mad bastards all night. My invisible girlfriend is beautiful, and elegant, and I’m not allowed to talk about her here 😦

You should message me if

You want a threesome 😉 My invisible girlfriend is hereby returned to flesh, bone, brains and brilliance – she’s skinny and graceful, pale white with black and pink hair, eyes as green as a toxic frog, cheekbones that could slice you open, and her…umm…oh gosh, if I continue onto the more lewd aspects of her body she’ll only cut them out, so I’ll say no more. But I love her utterly, and you, Human, will always come second. But we could take a third, occasionally, in our four-poster bed, provided you pay in blood…

You could also message me if you’re an immortal and want to come to a seriously fucked up, blood-drenched party – the more the merrier! It’s my birthday in a few months, and our…semi-friend Vlad (yes, really. That’s his name. He is the epitome of vampiric cliché, but the sadism of his parties has won me over) – he will throw a grandiose, insane party at any excuse. We once recreated the scene from Blade, slaying seven victims atop a punctured metal walkway, and showering in their blood. Fuck that was good – I’m glad he warned us to wear wipe-clean clothing! We’ve had blood waterslides, victim’s heads bouncing down the slide before we slither joyously around in their gushing arterial blood, and…Jesus, there’s been far, far more. I mean, he nearly chopped off my head once, during a disagreement over a victim, but we’ve made it up since. So, lonesome immortals, drop me a message – you will never become one of our family, we are beyond complete, but we can show you a good time 😉


Well, I feel that Kate succeeded – I have indeed been kept busy. And I can hear her car coming now – she’s about three miles or so away but the power of that engine is rather distinctive. I hope her father didn’t have another attempt at shoe-horning us apart because I’m such a terrible junkie fuck up… (No, he doesn’t know that we’re vampires. Kate is reluctant on the subject of mindfucking her family, but that was essential. Do not notice her changed eyes, cold hands, pale skin. She mindfucked him once more to hide my obvious intoxication at a family wedding (why do you think I avoid them so determinedly?!) , but in general, I am raw and naked and useless in his presence, and I must not mindfuck him…)

My girlfriend is returned to flesh, and I am no longer a sad lonesome masturbator on a terrifying dating site full of Jesus obsessives! TIME TO CELEBRATE!

I reckon I can do a shot of good New Jersey dope before Kate gets here, if I go full vamp-speed.

OVER AND OUT, it’s time to get high, then fuck like sleepy animals!!


I wanna fuck my vein like an animal!

I want a syringe on the inside!

I wanna fuck it like a JUNKIE!

My whole existence is fucked

You get me closer to…extremely fucked?


Well, alright, weed rarely produces fantastic poetry. Nonetheless.













And OUT!

…and that is all I have to say

I like to do it all my way

Heroin sex is underrated

Ecstasy sex is a pile of shite…


But not if you’re FUCKING ME! 😀


Right, I’ve really got to get going if I’m going to cook up a big golden brown shot before Kate roars up and tells me off. Mmmm, opiate sex. So long, singletons, may your quest for bonking go smoothly! (as may your future blowjobs… (that is one vampiric problem, fangs – you either learn to appreciate sadistic and scratchy blowjobs, or you buy a lot of dental dams…) )



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To Mr Trump

Hello America, I don’t live in your country, born and bred in London, 1823 vintage, now living in Clent, UK, but I have lived in America, several times, over the centuries – it’s generally been a pleasant sort of place. But Trump? TRUMP?!! What the fuck is this insanity about? (May I remind you that to ‘trump’ is to fart in the UK. Bear that in mind and may it give you strength. Presidant Fart, Presidant Shart… “Can we make this a hashtag to drive him insane with?” suggests my girlfriend, Kate, from over my shoulder) Hillary was awful, but at least she seemed almost relatively sane, as politicians go, and trust me I’ve seen a few. But she actually received more votes, which Trump is still vastly ‘butthurt’ about, to use the modern terminology. So, your US voting system is frankly fucked, the US is fucked, possibly the entire planet is fucked given that this touped orange squinty-eyed racist misogynistic maniac has the nuclear codes, and in his first interview in office declares that waterboarding and torture is a fabulous idea. Now, I may be an 193 year old vampire with my fair share of slaughters behind me, but even I would not ‘waterboard’ someone unless they were a proper cunt. Like..umm…well, how awkward, I’m struggling to think of one. Oh wait – that touped orangutan, he might do for some righteous vengeance! He said he would torture ‘suspects’. Well, Mr Fart, may I enquire – who hasn’t paid their taxes, ever, and is proud of it, and has also, on tape evidence, sexually assaulted women? He won’t release taxes, refuses to submit evidence, has upcoming sexual assault cases, I believe – does that make him a suspect? Can we waterboard you? I could handle that, to say the ,least…

I would like to step away from US politics but I’ll keep this fairly brief, in case I can whip this cocaine addicted (oh come the fuck on, I know my way around a chemical, every chemical known to man and more, and cocaine – all that sniffing Mr Fart does on camera, all those Twitter outbursts at 5am, all that insane, ludicrous ego? COCAINE! Yes, cocaine is lovely, but I’m not the fucking president, small ‘p’ there, and he it deserves even smaller. Like his tiny orange cocktail sausage cock, I suspect…) hyper-sensitive maniac up into a Twitter shitstorm, so over and out – I suppose I’m going to use my Twitter account for the first time, how utterly vulgar… (I despise Twitter, it is full of ego maniacs and morons. Like Mr Fart…)

Are you hearing me, President Fart? I don’t even care, I vastly enjoyed getting drunk and writing this out, Kate cackling behind me, though I am saddened by the ailing mortals whose Obama Care is being ripped away from them, I am saddened for the Muslims, of whom I’ve known many, I’m furious with people who vote before doing their research, I’m shocked and appalled that despite receiving less votes this revolting tit of a shit of a wanker is now the president. And over here, we have Brexit. I’m going to start eating all  these idiots, sucking their blood out and leaving them for dead! I swear. I only ever used to murder killers and rapists but now the idiots are on my list too. Watch out, in the darkened streets, for a vampire sweeping down upon you – I can hear your thoughts, and I know just who you are… An idiot?  I AM EATING YOU!!

Idiots, beware… I was too stoned to get you before the election, but now, I’M GOING TO FUCKING  EAT YOU!!

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Rob and Eden’s New Year’s Resolutions!

Just ’cause I’d forgotten this one, and I kind of love it – Kate. Happy, uhh, Poo Smear, I guess (Yes, Rob is still calling it that this year, and debauchery is planned… Have a good one. It’ll probably involve less evisceration than ours 😉 )


Happy Poo Smear, fuckers! This is Rob, and although the planet would explode if I got any more awesome, I’m going to make some New Year’s Resolutions. Mostly to encourage Eden to make some too, because he needs a lot of self-improvement. He just about qualifies to be my sidekick.

Right! One whiskey, five whiskeys, seven whiskeys, GO!

R – I want to have an orgy with a pair of really hot identical twins. I haven’t fucked twins since 1989, and those ones had really annoying voices. They were French, and in the end I had to ballgag them both, and then they dribbled. I reckon I can do better! 2013 is the year for Twin Fucking!

E – I have no idea. I’ve seen too many New Year’s Eves to give a flying fuck…

R – Drink more, you boring bastard! Don’t you have any goals in life?


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The Sinister Saga of the Etsy Bastards…

So… This is Eden, and thank you very much, Robert, for labelling me a ‘DYSFUNCTIONAL CREATURE in your previous post! I may have been on something of a spiritual quest of late, involving a lot of recreational substances, but I am an ADULT, and the best thing about being an ADULT is that you can TAKE AS MANY DRUGS AS YOU LIKE! So I did 😉 And yes, perhaps you may have heard me yowling like a cat for a straight hour at 5am, but I was purely experimenting with a new musical style, and…umm, alright, I confess that when I listened to the recordings later, it was hideous. But just because I got completely off my tits for a straight month and howled like a wolf on the roof once or twice, I am NOT GOING MAD!

Anyway, now that Rob has been put in his rightful place (the lavatory…) my purpose here is to write a Letter to a shitty company who have violated my metaphorical anus in the past few weeks, and who deserve a right royal bollock-bashing for it! Here is my motherfucking Letter!


“Dear Touch of Glam Beauty,

As I am going to make this letter public, I should probably set the scene. Nobody has even fucking heard of you, so to enlighten my readers, I am addressing an Etsy shop in the United States of Fucking Me Over! I recently purchased from them – in a state of great excitement – a ‘rainbow highlighter’! Now, what is this thing, I hear you cry! What the fuck does it DO?!

Well – let me tell you! I first heard of this Thing via my girlfriend Kate. She has recently created an Instagram account, and has become horrifically addicted to it. Forever wandering about the house crashing into walls because she’s staring like a bug-eyed zombie at her phone – scrolling, scrolling, scrolling endlessly away, for hours upon hours. Some of the things she shows me, I approve of. She follows a lot of dogs, which naturally, I approve of. I particularly recommend a small scruffy fellow named TinyGremlinDog, who I would, if I was an evil vampire, seriously consider kidnapping. He’s all black, with a tiny little nose, and big, beautiful, shiny black eyes – he seems a fitting companion for a sinister immortal such as I (I visualise myself soaring through the night sky with my evil minion-dog perched upon my shoulder…murdering the evil, watching him lapping up their blood, munching on their severed intestines! Yessss! I NEED this dog for my sinister workings!)

But anyway, anyway – I’m losing my thread here! Kate has this fucking Instagram Thing now, and she uses it to inspire herself regarding makeup. As for myself, being a male of the gothic persuasion, who is quite old enough to have been around throughout the initial explosion of the punk and gothic subcultures, I do wear makeup, and I like to think that I am actually quite good at it! But Kate…when I first met Kate, I was almost ashamed! She wears the Sistine Chapel all over her face on a near daily basis, and we’ve spent many happy nights together in the bathroom, as she teaches me things. I think I am 28% more beautiful since I met Kate, and that’s not bad, for my 193rd year on this Earth.

So – SO! The rainbow highlighter! It was a TREND, on the fucking Instagram thing – people were painting shimmering rainbows all over their sodding cheekbones, and personally…I thought it was a bit peculiar. I was a little on the fence about the whole charade, frankly. I thought, well, it’s pretty, I suppose, but it’s a little bit too cheerful, isn’t it? All those colours? I am a sodding GOTH, and I am also a motherfucking VAMPIRE – I can’t be seen with rainbows all over my face! People would mock me for the next millennia! (TWILIGHT JOKES WOULD RAIN DOWN FROM THE ROILING SKIES, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I can’t be seen to glitter! Jesus, JUST when all these sparkling vampire-ponce jokes were finally starting to die off! >_< ) But Kate put her foot down. She likes colours in her makeup, and I have to grudgingly admit that she makes colours look good. So, we ordered this sodding rainbow-bastard of a highlighter, and waited with bated breath!!




BUT, BUUUUUTTTTT, when this Thing arrived, ALL WAS IN RUINS! There was DEATH, there was BOTULISM, DECOMPOSITION and DESPAIR! We had paid an abominably deranged £20 to have shipped to us something barely bigger than a postage stamp, and when it arrived, it came in an ENORMOUS, UNNECESSARY BOX, stuffed to the gills with crinkly papery old bollocks. Well…alright, we thought – we’ve clearly been fucking ripped off here, but at least The Precious will be safe!

But it wasn’t – NOT AT ALL!

When we opened the container, our DREAMS were smashed into a million reeking fragments! Or more precisely, the arsefucking highlighter was shattered into a billion soul-destroying bollock-sucking cucumber-fucking CRUMBS! The whole point of these stupid things, is to carefully construct a rainbow of colour that can be swept all over your fucking face, so if you smash it up, if you FUCKING SMASH IT ALL UP, all you have is a useless mess of silvery dust, and THAT is what arrived on our miserable, accursed doorstep yesterday!!

We wept! We moaned! We wailed like banshees! We ripped out the fucking intestines of a fat man named Barry who was rude to me in the supermarket! DO NOT ANGER A PREVIOUSLY PEEVED VAMPIRE! It shall not go well for you, my detested one!


Once we’d finished devouring Barry’s vital fluids, and tossed his corpulent corpse into the Atlantic, we examined this disastrous product, and Kate rapidly became extremely pissed off! To her, it was apparent that the packaging of our Rainbow Shitbird Disaster was beyond all retribution – it was a metal pan rattling loosely about inside a crappy plastic box, and it would never have survived the transatlantic crossing! This was no mere bad luck, no unfortunate sinister curse – this was dangerous idiocy at work! All of that expensive bollocks, that oversized box stuffed with crinkly fucking nonsense, it was all for naught if the creator is too heinously stupid to glue down the pan!

In a vitriolic rage of vampiric redemption, Kate pounded out a furious demand to the seller! (She really was furious. Much as I love her, she isn’t the most patient of people, and when it comes to her online shopping, she’s a bit of a crack fiend. She waits…and waits…and then she absolutely loses her shit when the mail arrives. Ecstatic, deranged happiness, and then she fucks me for hours 😉 . But if the crack-mail is bad, you will have one goddamn angry demon on your hands! She typed so fast that the ‘E’ key went flying across the room, and her eyes had paled to a sinister shade of burning emerald green. I backed away, and hid under the duvet until she’d finished…)

Kate’s demands were not unreasonable. She just wanted her highlighter, intact – precisely as we had paid for it! And when the seller replied – you, Touch of Glam Beauty, YOU BLOODY SOD! When YOU replied, you informed us that you would replace our highlighter, for free…but only if we lived in the USA! But because we live in England (where we don’t have Donald Trump, so SUCK ON THAT! But we do have Boris Johnson. And Jeremy Hunt. And Brexit. It’s all up the shitter everywhere, I suppose, frankly…), we would have to regurgitate a further ludicrous £20 into your greedy, gluttonous, incompetent hands for this same privilege! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SMOKING?! Your packaging was the cause of this almighty clusterfuck, and if you are willing to pay $6 on American shipping, you should AT LEAST be willing to put that selfsame $6 towards OUR shipping! And what the fuck happened to the insurance in all of this?! You forced us to vomit up a royally insane $20 for an oversized, tracked box of mail – surely the whole point of this toilet-licking, shit-smeared decadence is that you can claim insurance if they royally fuck up your mail! So tell me…tell me, WHY IN SHIT’S NAME is this saving not being passed onto the consumer?! AKA, ME!!!  No…no! Not if you live in England! If you live in England you must be a gullible bumpkin, unknowing of the cosmopolitan ways in this land of the gun-toting free!

As such, Touch of Glam, AS FUCKING SUCH, we have demanded a refund from you instead, and you know what we did next? DO YOU KNOW??!!!

We went to a different Etsy retailer, and we bought a better rainbow highlighter. And do you know what they charged for shipping? They charged £7. SEVEN BITCHFUCKING POUNDS, YOU FIENDISH SAUSAGE-GOBBLING RIP-OFF MERCHANT BUM-BOIL! You promised the shimmering rainbows of the Gods, and then served me up a plate filled with genital warts and FAECAL VOMIT!!

Oh, how I detest you! How I utterly loathe and ABHOR YOU! It wasn’t just the £20 – fuck the £20! We are, as I mentioned, somewhat immortal, and due to the wise business decisions of my maker over the past few centuries, we are not exactly paupers. We can afford to toss away money on any old crap we like! We can afford to use diamonds as buttplugs, should we feel the need. But nonetheless, NONE THE FUCKING LESS, I am astounded by your fiendishness!

FIENDISHNESS!!! What a word, for me to use! I regularly rip out people’s throats, feed from femoral arteries, decimate corpses and dump them into a watery grave! I may not be the most moral of folk, but at least I know how the goddamn postal service works! If you are going to rip someone off so grievously for postage, you had better stuff that box full of shiny free shit, and you had DAMNED WELL better make sure your packaging isn’t so profoundly spastic that the whole product shatters into shitty little crumbs of useless filth!

So… We still await our rainbow highlighter…

The question that remains, however, is…will I still love Kate, when she has a rainbow for a face? Only time can tell… Will I…oh god… Will I allow her to bedeck me in these shimmering, feculent fucking rainbows? I HIGHLY DOUBT IT! But…but, what if…what if she gets me in the night?! What if she creeps up on me and turns me into a candyraver unicorn while I’m sleeping?! WHAT THEN?!!

Just because you make me happy, Kate, I have declared in her general direction, Just because you’ve been in the love of my life for quite some time, and I love you utterly, and because of you I’m not completely fucking miserable anymore, that doesn’t mean you can turn me into a goddamn fucking mermaid!

BECAUSE I AM A CREATURE OF THE SHADOWS! I am a demon of the NIGHT! Never forget how SINISTER I am!!

Right now I’m drunk, and I’m wearing Clara’s furry red slippers because they caress my toes so beautifully, even if my heels hang out of the back, but that…THAT doesn’t make me any less SINISTER! I’ll wear tiny, furry fucking slippers if I WANT TO!


Yours, with grave distaste,

Eden the Unholy!


PS – I wrote you a poem:


That Etsy has shits inside!

People are trying to bullshit you

People are peddling haunted poo!



Etsy is a gutter…

Of fiendish, slimy fuckers!

I declare that we should eat them all!

I declare we should CUT OFF THEIR BALLS!

Do not seek to deceive me

You thieving bastard scum!

I shall come, I might even CUM

Right in your fucking eye!

I shall come for you, fiendishly, fiendishly!

You scheming, thieving SHITE!


I’ll eat you in the night!


Touch of Glam, Touch of Glam

You are a stinking, reeking, fucking sham!

Let it be heard far and wide

That your scheming heart has shits inside!

I ate that fat man Barry

And it was all because of you!

You stink, you all stink of POO!

But I shall still, I shall still



We demanded a refund as you were being so dickish

And you did not even reply!



I have had it with you!

My furry slippers will be up your arse

This entire charade is one flatulent farce!

So let it be heard, far and wide

Touch of Glam has SHITS inside!




Ah, that was cathartic! Now I’m going to roll a big fat joint, and flip a coin with Kate over who gets to leave this Etsy shitstore a terrible review 😉 Then I might go and howl madly on the roof for a while – I highly recommend it! I like to insult the stars, one by one, in the style of a psychotic profanity-spitting werewolf. I think it’s my new hobby! Kate joins in, sometimes, she doesn’t think I’m mad…much. The first time we met she thought I was a fucking lunatic, but that’s a tale for another time. Night night, edible little humans…

 And… and…

And never buy ANYTHING from Touch of Glam!

They’re a bucket of turds,

They’re fucking absurd,

They’re a SHIT ON MY SHOE,

I’m telling you, I’m TELLING YOU,

Do not step in poo…

Avoid them, avoid those loathsome turds.



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Five Songs…to Kill Yourself To

Alright mortals, this is Rob, and I’ve got some helpful advice for you, since Eden’s been off on one lately (he’s a dysfunctional fucking creature, let’s say no more, but he’ll be alright, he always is), so I figured I’d fill in for him this month. And tonight, I’m gonna tell you how to KILL YOURSELF, IN STYLE! I should be writing for motherfucking Cosmopolitan, I’m everyone’s best friend!

Now, we all know there are a lot of things to consider, when ending your life – dogs and spider plants to rehome, getting just the right mood across in your suicide note – not too accusatory or maudlin (you don’t want your ashes flushed down the shitter by your pissed off wife, put it that way), a little lighthearted to comfort the grieving, but not jokey enough to make everyone really, really hate you. Then you should probably throw out all your sex toys, burn your hard-drive, get in the necessary equipment (here, we’re going to focus on hanging as the method of our expiration; it’s a good all-round choice for a reliable death, and not so prohibitory as other methods can be, like a heroin overdose, which sounds lovely, but where’s your average middleaged housewife going to get bags of smack from, and who’s going to teach her what to do with all those needles? Then there’s trains, of course, jumping in front of them, but what a mess – nice bit of vengeance if you really hate your job, and you can splatter yourself right in front of all your colleagues, but for most people, hanging’s a good solid option. Let’s stick with that!)

So, now that you’ve taken care of everyone else, what about yourself? What about your final moments on this Earth? No doubt you have perfectly good reasons for offing yourself – financial strife, failing health, a cat that won’t stop shitting in your bed, an all-consuming fear of cornflakes, etc etc – and that means your final minutes could be the best ones you ever have. You know you’re leaving, now – it’s all over, all the shit things you’ve drudged through, no more of that! No more of your mother-in-law’s overcooked Brussels sprouts, no more queuing at the post office, no more getting the stink-eye from that sour-faced old prune at the local pub, no more wet socks, tepid baths, eye-watering bowel movements, losing your keys, disappointing sex – and what about the future? Everyone knows that the future is full of Awful Fucking Things. By definition, we all die, and for most of us, it won’t be at all pleasant. Will you tumble down a flight of stairs, break a hip and lie there alone in the dark for days on end until you finally expire, cold and alone, to have your face eaten off by your beloved cats? Will you get a cancer diagnosis and spend your final months vomiting your guts up and wishing you were dead? Will you live to be 100 and see everyone you’ve ever cared about wither and die horribly before your eyes? Either way, it’s a pretty shitty picture. So, once your noose is a-swinging, prepped and ready, just ponder all those terrible fates. All those crappy days that you’ll never have to live through – what a joyful fucking thought!

Now, with a BIG FAT smile on your face, let’s pick out a final tune to play you out!


1 – Johnny Cash – Sunday Morning Coming Down

Who wouldn’t want Johnny Cash to be the last thing their dying ears ever heard? For this suicide, you need whiskey. You need LOTS of whiskey, and several packs of cigarettes. Have a final fucking party for yourself, a really glum one, and once the room’s completely fogged over with smoke, and you have a strange urge to buy a Ford Thunderbird and drive it off a cliff, it’s about time to get on that stool. Whiskey in hand, take a bow, have a final swig, and pop on the noose. Now, this is a good long song, so if we’re going for short-drop hanging, you can still rest easy that old Johnny won’t give out before you do. What a guy! (now, obviously ‘Don’t Know Where I’m Bound’ is another good choice, but I’d save that one for your funeral, really depress the shit out all your relatives. Sunday Morning’s far better for dying to!)


2 – Oasis, D’You Know What I Mean?

Don’t hop up on that stool ‘til all the Morse code and helicopter buggery’s over with, no one deserves to go out to that. Wait ‘til it gets going, with every golden drop of its fuck-you-cuntybollocks Mancunian swagger. Coming in a mess, going out in style – damn right we are Mr Gallagher! Do you feel like you’re in a movie yet? Feeling pissed off and goddamn righteous yet? Fuck YES you are! Now whack that noose over your head, take the leap, and get ready to give God one big fat middle finger!


3 – Bruce Springsteen – The River

For the most maudlin suicide of all! Life goes to shit, this song declares – everyone begins with soaring hopes, and everyone gets stomped down into the dirt – failure piling upon misery, piling upon shattered dreams and broken hopes and ruined lives! Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true, or is it something worse? asks Bruce, and who knows, mate, but it’s enough to make anyone want to top themselves, this song. This suicide also requires whiskey, and maybe a drunken phonecall to an ex. If you’ve got a harmonica, join the fuck in – it doesn’t matter if you can’t play, harmonicas always sound like the howling organs of misery even when you’re right off key. Hop up on that stool, grab the noose, pump your last breath into that damned organ of pain, and take the leap. A glorious fucking exit!


4 – Quiet Riot – Bang Your Head

Because ‘Highway to Hell’s just too damn obvious at this point, so for the same ‘flinging yourself drunken and furious into the devil’s embrace’ vibe, this is my first choice. Before your suicide, you might want to sit down and watch The Wrestler. Ah, the glory days, but they’re all over now, and life’s turned into a right royal shitsandwich – it’s time for that final Ram Jam into the great beyond! BANG YOUR HEAD!


5 – The Cure – Lovesong

This is for the suicide that isn’t intended to end in death, if you’re being totally fucking honest with yourself. Anyone who tries to hang themselves to something this weepy has far too many regrets, and doesn’t want to be doing it at all. So, Reluctant Ceiling Swinger, I suggest you either relegate this track to your funeral (mummy’ll weep her little eyes out), or instead, invite your friend out to the pub, and have a bitch and moan instead. Maybe you can get over your crippling fear of cornflakes after all! (but if you’re really determined to go out to this track, try Adele’s cover. That’ll have you hurling yourself into the noose out of sheer hopelessness at the trashing of good art… Dear LORD, Adele. What the fuck were you doing?!)

Right then, my little mortal underlings, if you’re not dead by the end of this list, I hope you live out the rest of your short little lives in relative tranquility, or at least you can afford to get drunk enough to forget about your impending old age, incontinence and terrible oncoming doom. Hopefully Eden’ll pull his maudlin arse out of this latest shitfit soon and carry on blogging (oh fuck, no – I never said that, Eden’s not a ‘blogger’, noooo – he’s a ‘writer’. Course you are mate. Absolutely, whatever you say 😉 ), so, yeah, onwards and upwards, he’ll be back, and if he doesn’t get his shit together soon you’ll have more of me, and I’m way more fun anyway.

Night night, fuckers!

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The Immortal’s Guide to Surviving a Shitty World

Hello… This is Eden, and I’m currently rather stoned. I’m all alone down here, and I’ve been reading the papers, and thinking. Thinking about the dark things taking place in the world. Modern people don’t understand it – they think the world is a terrible, terrible place, with all these terrorist attacks, racist attacks, hate crimes – they feel like they’re slithering into hell, but…I’ve been here for so long, centuries in fact, and you aren’t slithering into hell, little human. It isn’t truly that bad. Or, well, it is – every atrocity is tragic, of course it is, but in the grand scheme of things, the world is actually getting better.

Because? Because there are so many people in the world now like Kate, my beloved girlfriend, who is decidedly modern, barely more than a baby in vampire terms. And people like Kate, they feel for all the people who’ve died, these people they’ve never even met. People like Kate, they realise the most basic of basics – that all humans have feelings, and don’t deserve to suffer. I felt that, innately, when I first travelled to the New World, and in the South they still had their strange, coal-black African slaves, who were kicked and beaten and treated like animals. The negros, as they called them… And they were, admittedly, strange to me – I’d never seen one before, but they smelled human, they tasted human, and of course, I could hear their thoughts. Often they were in a language I didn’t understand, but the sentiment…I felt the sentiment there, felt the way that they could love and hate and despair just as we did. They were human…but it took so long for the world to see it. And then our own English women, trussed up in corsets every second of their lives, passed around like currency, dying in childbirth, never allowed to challenge a man even if he was stupid and crass and she was a genius. Elizabeth was a genius…I was stupid and crass before I met her – using women, seducing them, fucking them, ruining their reputations, getting them knocked up (though I didn’t find that out for a very long time indeed…), but when I met Elizabeth, and we spent time together, I realised…bloody hell – she’s a person! She’s a human, and her mind is equal to mine, at least! God, it sounds so grotesque, to admit these things, here and now, in the modern day, but honestly, that was what they fed us, at home, at school. I was a boy. That made me superior. Women were playthings, were lessers, or as good old Oscar put it;

Women are a decorative species; they have nothing at all to say, but they say it charmingly.

And I believed it. I believed that I would seduce, lie, fuck around, and finally settle down with some pretty little thing to show off at balls, and she’d bear me some children that I would ignore completely because I would still be out fucking other people. And then…Elizabeth happened. She threw me off guard, immediately, but not in an uncomfortable way. I think I’d fallen in love with her within about ten minutes, even though she made me nervous. Women never made me nervous, before. I manipulated them, but Elizabeth, she was clever, she was witty, she was…fuck…I suppose it’s all the horrible things she went though, that made her so special. She’d already been manipulated and used…she knew when she was being lied to. Shrewd. She was shrewd, but never cruel. She was as clever as any man, yet never allowed to show it. God, this is depressing. I’m not talking about Elizabeth anymore…

But anyway, the woman of those times, she was never allowed to be a genius – they thought it would make her hysterical, make her insane, if she even wrote a book, for fuck’s sake! That’s not your place. There were public executions. Imprisonment of gays. Chemical castration. Auschwitz. Peasant mobs. Legal torture.

And this, this is what the humans of today don’t understand. Our world is emerging from hell! It was rarely hell for me, of course, the son of Lord, but I fell into destitution for quite long enough to experience the cold, heartless void of 19th century humanity. And now…things are better. They are. They are better. They aren’t perfect, and I suspect they never will be perfect, because people are so horribly different – we’ll never all get along. You know that saying about romance, that there’s somebody out there for everyone? It sounds optimistic, but it has a deeper, darker side. It means that whoever you are, however foul, bigoted, cruel, stinking and mean, you will find others just like you. And this…it will be the case forever. It’s not even a class war – it’s not just the criminals who were dragged up in poverty and know no other way to live than bullying and raping and intimidation. Our government are no better – don’t you think I know the aristocracy, inside out? I came from that place, I endured those schools, and the poison is in me now as surely as it’s inside them. I’m privileged, I’m arrogant, I’m selfish and egotistical, but at least I’m self aware! At least I know that I, me, a selfish, melodramatic, undead junkie, should NOT be in charge of the country! But these men, these awful, ruthless, demented power-junkies, they were born into it. It’s expected of them – from birth, they slithered on a toxic oil-slick of money from Eton to Oxbridge to Parliament, or the upper echelons of the banking system. Power. They say it corrupts, so imagine being born into it, being told from the moment you could speak that you are better than all of them, those smelly little children from the local comprehensive. Sociopaths. They grow up into sociopaths…

Losing my thread here…weed doesn’t make for intellectual debates…

Umm. Alright then… I think my point, actually, was that the world is riddled with terrible, horrible people, and they will never go away. But the good thing, the good thing about this chaotic modern world, is that there are people like Kate – so many of them. They’re plugged into the internet night and day, and they know things, they read the stories of the victims of these tragedies, and they cry for the deaths of people they never even met. Deaths are not just a statistic, not anymore. The freedom of the press allows victims to speak their stories, to share the photos, the achievements, the personalities of the dead. They become real to us, and that…it lights up the good in humanity. The sympathy, the empathy.

We all live in our warm safe homes, filled with a million forms of entertainment. I can access a new book within a few short clicks of my Kindle. I can connect with people everywhere, and we can share in our sadness, our joy, our frustration. Yes, there are those parts of the internet where the sick, the sociopathic, the warped and the repulsive dwell and breed just as equally, but they know. They know that they are a pustule on the gleaming face of a better world, and they’re scared, they are so scared to venture away from their computer screen with these sick beliefs that they hold, because at heart, they know it. They know they’re a dying minority, that there are people filling this world like Kate, who will CURBSTOMP them into the depths of hell if they bring these sick, deluded views out onto the streets. So let them – let them rage away in the comment sections, let them rage away on their dying forums, for they are the last vestige of the backwards world I was happy to watch rot away.

I don’t doubt that these increasing attacks will lead us into another period of darkness, and in this, I feel sorry for the humans, the mortals, for whom this period will be their entire life. Darkness, bloodshed, a wasted, decimated generation of eager youths fed into the slaughtermill of war. But for us, the immortals, the ones who live on eternally, we’ve seen it all before. It will pass – it always does. There is still beauty in the world.

In my world, there is Kate, who is everything to me, then of course there are the others, Rob, Clara, Samuel, who endure, who remember with me, who never leave me alone in this world full of strangers and change and dying, breakable, butterfly mortals. And for each of you, those selfsame mortals, there will be something just as beautiful. It might be an internet full of cats, it might be the eternal waggling, toothy happiness of your Labrador, it might be a lover, a friend, a beautiful spot in the woods, a cold swim on a hot day, a cup of frozen yoghurt with the sunshine on your face, a glass of the perfect wine with a room full of friends, or even just your own bed, your own sanctuary, as incense burns, and weed-smoke fills your lungs, and Netflix transports you away from this sick, rotten world. There’s always something, no matter how small. Focus on that.

God, I sound like a fucking hippie! This is the most grotesquely sappy thing I’ve ever written! I suppose weed will do that to you sometimes. But everything I say is the truth. The newspapers are full of horror – they always will be. But your friends, your lover, your children, your dog, they are the real things in life. They are the things that matter. Darkness only wins if you let it permeate your world, leave you shivering in terror. And maybe that day will come, as Trump and Farage preach their hatred, as corruption and racism feed upon each other, as war and injustice kindle into chaos…but isn’t that reason more, to be happy now? To appreciate the now, when you still have a functioning world, a safe home, friends who care? Because the world is slithering – I can’t deny that. Climate change, global warming – these are things I have never truly feared before, not in all my centuries of life. When London is lost beneath the sea (because I will still be here, you may not, but I will…it’s not all blood and rainbows, immortality. When that day comes, I will feel that my entire mortal existence has been obliterated, my memories burned into ash. But I can’t change it. The tides of this cesspit tsunami will engulf us all, someday – even the so-called immortal…)

But right now, right now, I’m smoking a big fat joint crammed with good, strong, citrus-tasting Amsterdam weed. Kate is awaiting me upstairs, naked and glorious. Tomorrow, we’re going back into the studio with a big bottle of Jack and an eighth of cocaine, to start recording some new material, then there’ll be photoshoots, and live gigs full of sweat and the sweet hot scent of human blood, the adoring mortal eyes, the ringing glorious notes of my guitar – Kate on my left, looking like the rockstar she was always born to be, snarling into the mic with her impossible, impossible voice until goosebumps shiver up my spine, Clara to my right, practically fucking her guitar until the men in the crowd drown in their own cum, and Rob behind me, battering the shit out of his drumkit as though he was killing a Nazi with every blow. Samuel, he just stands in the crowd, watching, always watching, and smiling, silently encouraging. This is my life, and I love it. Yes, there are dark things…there is the fact that as soon as we return from that gig, and the others are still high on life, on music, I will lock myself away in the bathroom and shoot myself full of heroin, but I don’t care, I do NOT care. It’s still happiness, isn’t it? Just another form of happiness, and I’m alright with that. Nothing is perfect. My life is a microcosm of the world – darkness and joy battle it out eternally. But there is joy. Look for it. Hold onto it. It isn’t all going to shit.

I think I’m going to shut up now, and go upstairs, because hopefully Kate is still awake, and Rude Things shall commence. But it’s a beautiful night, out there. If she’s asleep, I’ll go out by myself, and fly into the city, to sit on top of the Bullring, and smoke weed, lying on my back, watching the stars, listening to the thoughts of a million drunken humans, their petty dramas, their brief little lives, captured in the sweat-drenched electricity of a modern Saturday night.


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The Sinister Tortures of March

Hello world. This is Eden, complaining bitterly. Here we go again – the grisly cycle repeats anew. A fresh year filled with botulism and despair has cracked over our heads like a rotten, reeking egg, and that means that Samuel is being horrible to me, as usual. I don’t know when he’s finally going to realise that sobriety brings me out in a rash, but apparently not yet. Thrust into my façade. Sobriety… New Year’s Resolutions. A new year, a new me. A sober me. Not what I would ever have chosen – I DETEST EVERY SECOND OF IT!

Do you know what happens to me, whenever I’m sober? I get perverse, endless, tantalising, torturous flashbacks, flashbacks of drugs, beautiful pictures in my mind – needles, bags, spoons, opium pipes, the smell, the taste, the colour… I hear this is what veterans of war experience, but I haven’t been traumatised by awful things, I’ve been traumatised by lovely things, and then the lovely things being taken away from me. That’s my trauma. PDSD. Post Delicious Smack Disorder. It never leaves me alone, whatever I’m doing. Stalking through the aisles of the Mordor that is Tescos, and I see spoons-needles-amber-gold-ohhhhhgod I want it, no, no I’m not allowed, FUCKFUCKFUCK where are the eggs, I have to find the eggs, needles-spoons-veins-3-bags-for-25-quid, ohhhh it hurts, FUCKFUCK, just FUCKOFF! This is my entire life, from dusk til dawn, whenever Samuel is torturing me in this heinous way!

It’s 1858 all over again. Aren’t you happy? If you’re happy, why do you need it? And yes, of course I’m happy. I’ve got Kate, haven’t I, and the years pass and now she knows all my deepest, darkest, most awful secrets, and she still hasn’t run away screaming or decapitated me in my sleep. And that’s more than I could ever have expected from anyone, let alone from someone as amazing as Kate. So of course I am – of course I’m happy. And that did change things, for a while…no. No, I don’t think it did, actually. When I first met Kate, I stayed away from lovely drugs to the best of my abilities for quite some time, that much is true, but I think it was more out of fear than happiness. I was on my best behaviour, wasn’t I? I’d just met the love of my life, and she was unexpectedly human, and human with a multitude of complications, which meant that not only did I want her to love me and tolerate me, I wanted her to love me enough to commit to entering vampirism and tolerating me for all eternity – what a thing to ask! So of course I was! Of course I was on my best fucking behaviour, I barely strayed beyond weed, booze and blood for months, but that just isn’t who I am. It just isn’t. It never has been. And not even Kate can change that – nobody can. The cracks began to show soon enough, one little fuck up turned into a handful, and then I had to confess everything, and for some reason she still didn’t hate me or abandon me forever, and then…well. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Fear was no longer a motivator. That’s how all relationships go. Nobody is truly themselves for the first few months – they’re too scared. And then, eventually, your real self comes out, and at that point, they either leave in disgust, or they choose to stay. And Kate chose to stay. She chose to love me, even though I’m a terrible junkie fuckup. So I wasn’t scared anymore. I could be a terrible junkie fuckup, and there would be no consequences.

But Samuel still badgers me with the same nonsense. Samuel and Rob and Clara, and sometimes even Frederick, crossing entire oceans to badger me with the same nonsensical questions. If you’re happy, why do you need it? And I don’t know. I don’t fucking know why I need it, but I do. I always have. There’s something innately wrong with me. I’m sure if I went to some ghastly mortal psychologist he would give me an ugly dysfunctional label to wear upon my head like a neon red excuse, but I won’t. It doesn’t matter what it’s called – I know it’s there, and I know it always will be there. Perhaps it was my mother, constantly sedating me with opium tincture before I was old enough to walk. Who knows. It’s there. It always has been. Samuel always philosophises about immortality, about it freezing us at the stage of maturity we’d reached when we were turned, that perhaps I would’ve grown out of it if I’d stayed mortal, except of course I wouldn’t. I would have drunk myself to death. That was my fate, and I was well on my way to achieving it. Samuel fiddled about with my beastly fate, and the result of tampering in Death’s plans is me. A 192 year old, indestructible junkie. Nothing to be done about it, not now, and not ever.

The second part of the answer to this annoying question, is that ‘happy’ is a squidgy sort of concept. Like I said, there’s something wrong with me. Because at times like this, when Samuel’s forced me into sobriety for days, weeks on end, ‘happy’ becomes very confusing. I have Kate, I have my family, I have Noodle, I have my cars, we can travel to anywhere in the world if I demand it. So I should be happy. I have everything. Life is splendid. But somehow, when I’m sober, all that is external. I can be lying in bed with Kate’s glorious pale nudity sprawled out next to me, and the sunset making her eyes glow like she’s the most beautiful cat, or I can be sitting in Café du Monde with a pile of powdered beignets between the two of us and the smell of chicory coffee mingling with sugar and human blood, and the whole of the French Quarter full of music and booze and drunk, edible tourists – I can be anywhere at all. And everything I see around me is sublime, it’s perfect – I should be thinking, bloody hell, I was doomed to die in a stinking gutter in 1848 with street urchins pissing all over my corpse, and instead here I am, in the 21st century, wearing a pair of beautiful, ridiculous boots, young forever, a gadget in my pocket that plays me all the music in the world at the touch of a button, and speaking of music, the world appreciates mine to the extent of seeing herds of bright eyed children mouthing my lyrics back to me from the stage, and the guitars, the guitars, my beautiful sparkling purple guitars, and my suicidally fast cars, and Samuel and Rob, and Clara too, surviving at my side through all of it. All of us sitting here, together, in this bizarre, fantastical world, licking sugar off our fingers, and Kate holding my hand – I have everything. I have more than everything. That’s what I should be thinking, and I do, sometimes. I try to remind myself. But I don’t feel it – that’s the difference, between me and you. It’s just words, just notions. Inside, I feel like a stone. A small, grey, shrunken stone, removed from all of it. It doesn’t fucking matter where I am. It doesn’t fucking matter how naked Kate is (well, alright, I confess I’m distracted for a while by Kate’s nudity. Only human, after all. Sort of…), inside I am a shrivelled, cold stone, and all I’m thinking is, god, I want to escape from this hellish place and get high. That’s all I want in the entire world. And then it flashes through my mind, a tumbling cascade of wishful imagery – golden amber syrup filling a slim syringe, spoons stained gold, the smell the taste my veins…my veins…they begin to tingle, and my fingers start to itch, it’s sort of like craving a cigarette, but it’s my veins that crave it. They crave the sting, the flush-down of that amber syrup, and the bliss that follows.

When I have that, I love everything. I love the world. I love being alive. (More or less. I can be a little bit grumpy, on occasion – Kate would never have made this blog, and you would never be reading these words, were it not for my predilection for Grumpy Letters, but…c’est la vie. C’est la me…). Heroin fixes me. Without it, everything is unbearable, and with it, I can appreciate the beauty in everything…or mostly everything. Not Tescos. There’s no beauty in Tescos… But that’s the long and the short of it.

So I suppose that’s all I have to say. Maybe I’ll show this to Samuel later. Maybe it explains better than I ever do in speech. Samuel gets so patronising, and beneath the stern beam of his expression of utter, eternal disappointment, I get quite defensive and petulant and angry, and I don’t express anything very well. He treats me like a drug-addled brat so I behave like one. Can’t help it. But it isn’t very conducive to getting him to fuck off and leave me alone. So perhaps I’ll show him this, and he’ll sigh despairingly, and look all disappointed, but maybe he’ll understand. And above all, maybe he’ll fuck off and GET OFF MY BACK and I’ll be able to leap into the Audi and go roaring off into the city to buy an ungodly amount of smack, and life can resume at its usual lovely tempo, everything tinted through a warm filter of honey gold. That’s how I like to live – always. Kate understands, finally, I think…which is I why I love her so much. Of course I love Samuel too, but you can definitely love somebody and still want to hit them over the head repeatedly with the largest book you possess!

Anyway. This is very long, so I suppose I’m going to shut up now, and go and woo my girlfriend into giving me some especially violent sex to take my mind off it. May your weekend be less frustrating than mine has been, reeking mortals…

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No More Vampires

Hello world. This is Eden, and I do not care to describe to you the unsightly events of my festive period, so I shan’t. Instead, I’ve written you a poem. In the newspaper today, they declared that vampires as a literary trend were over and done with, a passing fad, and now gay people are the trendy thing to write about instead! And this, understandably, pissed me off rather a lot! I felt as though they were trying to will me out of existence, as though I should just go POP like a little soap bubble and disappear in a soggy dribble of broken dreams and congealing spunk, now that my fad is over. Making my whole life into a fad, when I have been ON THIS PLANET for over 192 fucking years! I am older than Big Ben, for fuck’s sake, yet do we declare that London’s emblem was just a tiresome fad and it’s about time we replaced it with a post-modernist rainbow dildo?! The gays have been around forever! Why are they suddenly more exciting than me?!

I find it all utterly gruesome. As such, here is my poem.


An Ode, To That Dickhead at The Independent


So the world doth think the vampire a fad,

But we’ll see how you feel when I eat you!

When I swoop upon you, and you laugh in my face

As you tell me that you’re tired of my race,

That we’re over and done with and dumped down the shitter


I am not some poncing, sparkling tit!

To be over and forgot!

You may be tired of me and my people

But we shall continue to fucking EAT YOU!


Quite frankly I’m feeling rather glad,

That you believe the vampire was merely a fad

For I’m sick of seeing you ugly fucks

Flouncing about in fangs and a retro tux

However sinister you think you are

Compared to me you’re a saggy bra!

A wobbling, drooping, human tit

So let it be known, you reeking shit

That this vampire will never go away

Even if our species has had its day!

It pleases me, truly, to return to the gloom

The nether-regions of mortal doom

From whence you shall never see me coming

We’ll give your species a RIGHTEOUS BUMMING!

(By which I mean, we shall dine on you left, right and centre, and you will bleed and scream and curse your god, and your mother, and wish that you had never been born as you twitch and gurgle on the city streets, your neck torn right open and all your lovely glistening anatomy falling out of the hole, and your final thought shall be ‘Ohhh, but I can’t be killed by a vampire, they’re so very 2010!’ YOU’LL BE DEAD, AND I’LL BE ALIVE, PISSING ALL OVER YOUR CORPSE! What do you think of that? 😉 )


I’m told that gays are the next big thing

To replace us in popular literature

So here it comes, the big reveal

Could it be that I am mighty still?

For I have lived for a great duration

Do you think me immune to copulation?

Let it be known that I have fondled a cock

Other than mine, in my time,

And thus am I not still relevant?

Must vampires now be so sexually deviant

In order to exist?

Must we gag on dildos and bathe in piss?

Is the vampire pornstar the next cliché

Or is it enough to be just a little bit gay?

How many cocks will it require?

That my species is not forced to retire?

What if I said I was a circus freak

With three massive dicks and a bird’s-arse beak?

Fucking women with my slimy feet?

But I shall not be so cheap!

Let the gays have their day,

And here endeth the lesson –

Oh, poor gays, what will they do to you

In all these works of fiction?

You’ll begin with flair, you’ll begin with panache,

But eventually you’ll be a fool with a cheap moustache

A boring, recycled, regurgitated cliché

And then they’ll toss you asunder!

All your uniqueness plundered!

Well, either that, or they’ll turn you into a werewolf. That’s the way it goes, you see. When you become boring, they turn you into a werewolf, and when that becomes boring they turn you into a physically impossible vampire-werewolf hybrid, so I must warn you, unfortunate gays, that you will eventually have had your time, and you’ll find yourself washed up in a Vegas motel, with a bleeding arse and the hangover from hell, and they’ll tell you that now you’re a gay, trans, non-binary, vegan, feminist, sanguinarian otherkin were-possum from the planet Zumba, because that’s the cool thing now. Far better to resist, I feel, to go quietly into the shadows of irrelevance, than become such a thing…

And so, if our age of glorious vampirism is over, then that is quite all right with me. I shall leave with my dignity. Well, I say leave, but I’m actually not going anywhere. Because I’m a little bit immortal. Problematic, being passé and yet incapable of dying. I always had mixed feelings about being trendy though anyway. It was novel at first, but then the fictional vampire became this ghastly sparkling empty-headed sex doll, and it made me shudder. Nobody was afraid of me anymore! Nobody thought me evil and terrifying, instead they thought I was misunderstood and dejected, and they’d invite me inside for some cottage pie and a cuddle and then they’d give me their therapist’s number in case I needed to talk, and I’d be thinking FUCK YOU, ANNE RICE!! This isn’t how it’s supposed to GO! I’m a fucking DEMON, not some needy, abused orphan! Why isn’t anybody SCREAMING! Ohhh, it was quite ghastly, in all honesty, being trendy. I think I’m glad it’s over, really. Because I know how these things go. We’ll be passé for a few years, but then we will resurface as a retro trend, which is always cooler – a little more stylish, more underground, beloved only by the hardcore fanbase who truly appreciate us for our FIENDISH VAMPIRISM and not just because we’re pretty!

So, I SHALL AWAIT THE DAY OF MY NICHE RETURN, and in the meantime, I shall still be eating your brethren!

Good day to you, reeking mortals! 😉



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Christmas Doom

Hello world… This is Eden, and I am here to vent my sense of impending doom regarding the approaching festivities Tomorrow, I am going to make a real effort to participate in a Human Family Christmas. Samuel had a bit of a horrible talk to me the other day, when Kate went out stripping with Clara, about how Kate’s family are all going to start dropping dead in about a decade, and if she feels that I’ve blighted their relationship during their final years together, she will despise me forever more. So – that’s that, isn’t it?! I have to make an effort, this Christmas! I have to join in with all the enforced jollity, and more than that, I’m supposed to be sober throughout! Or, well…I mean, nobody truly expects me to be sober sober, because they’ve actually met me, and they know that sobriety is not amongst my vast slew of fiendish talents. So, I’m allowed to be a little bit inebriated. Just a little bit softly padded around the edges with a comforting blanket of smack, but nothing more than that. I must be awake, and operational, and not slurring or falling over or being sick on the infants. Which, for anybody who has ever met me on Christmas Day, is going to be an extremely tall order! I’m a little bit daunted by the task at hand, truth be told… 😦

To be optimistic, the upside of this it that it is Kate’s family I have to spend the day with, which means that Kate herself will be there with me, and I can’t really complain too bitterly about spending Christmas Day with the person I love most in the world, but on the downside of this grisly equation, I’m not allowed to fuck her, or anything rude like that, because we’re with her family, and that puts a bit of a damper on any sort of celebration, I feel! Because what is a celebration without sex? Or drugs?! These were the questions I put to Samuel, during our little talk – surely, I felt, wouldn’t Kate rather spend Christmas Day in bed with me, snorting cocaine off each other’s stomachs and breaking the curtain rails with our rampant demon sex? Surely that’s a far better way to celebrate! Samuel did, admittedly, agree with me to an extent on this particular point, but apparently even my extreme sexual prowess and a bag of pure Colombian cocaine can’t compete with the miseries of her dying mortal relatives! Samuel says that Kate will feel like an awful bastard, if her family drop dead and she hasn’t seen them in years because she was always too busy fucking me, so that’s that – I’m doomed! As a compromise, we’ve pencilled in some cocaine and fucking for December 27th, but Christmas Day and Boxing Day are firmly inked in for Family Time. Sober Eden Time… ABOMINABLE TORTURE TIME!!!

It all began today – Christmas Eve. In my mortal youth, this day was really quite civilised, in general – you might get a few carollers at the door, and the street urchins were even more pathetic, greedy and irksome than usual, but overall, it was a fairly ordinary day! But now, NOW, in the year 2015, when I was sent out by Samuel to buy wine and chocolates with which to bribe Kate’s family into not despising me with, I found myself stranded in the depths of some demented LSD-saturated episode of The League of Gentlemen! Everywhere I went, shopkeepers were dressed up as fat jolly reindeer and demented bearded Santa Clauses, and worst of all, an intensely sinister snowman with a dildo-like carrot for a nose, who seemed to be drunk off his carroty face as he served me at the till, making bizarre theatrical gestures and perverse festive wisecracks, until finally I shuffled out of that shop feeling profoundly bewildered and violated, and by god, I thought, it’s barely even begun yet, this festive arsefucking I’m about to receive!

Kate’s already abandoned me, and will be spending the night at her family home. I am going to follow her over whenever I start feeling lonely and depressed, and we’ll probably have a shifty little silent fuck in her single bed, and then in the morning I’ll jump out of the window and arrive through the front door like a civilised gentleman, so that her mother thinks I’m a polite young Christian boy and not the godawful smack addicted daughter-fucking junkie-demon ruiner of Christmas that I might otherwise appear to be. And then OFF WE GO! Once more into the breach! Christmas has begun, and there’s no more smack for Eden – instead the day will yawn ahead of me, an endless desert of stodgy puddings and gruesome turkeys and silly hats and strange, bewildering infants staring into my soul with their sinister eyes, speaking nothing but seeing everything, staring at me and judging me and hating me… I get a little paranoid around young children. There was a rather unspeakable incident involving my baby niece during the Christmas Day of 1847, which is far too shameful a thing to even speak of, but anyway, without going into the lurid details, I can’t look upon the faces of infants without shuddering and recalling that ghastly Christmas Day, the final time I saw my own mortal family, before I blackened my name beyond all repair and was banished from their lives forever!

So, isn’t it understandable that I am grievously concerned about tomorrow?! In 1847 I went to my family home to make amends, on Samuel’s say so, and I created nothing but a sordid spectacle of drunkenness and vomit, and that was that, they hated me forever! And now, surely, history repeats itself! Out into the world I go, full of good intent, and yet utterly doomed to fail! Sober, on Christmas Day – of all things! It’s an unholy proposition!


An Ode, to Christmas Doom…

O grisly turkey, I feel thy pain

Thy arse is stuffed –

I’m stuffed with shame


Christmas Day bursts into bloom

No heroin must I consume

In sobriety I am entombed

It feels like gloom



Everyone is merry

But I want to DIE!

Big fat bastards are gorging on pie!

Sinister children giving me the eye

How many hours, will it take to satisfy?

How long must I sit here before I scream GOODBYE?!

And race out into the Christmas night

Leap from this room, flee and take flight!


Sitting here all day, trying to be nice

But all is a sham – I am a creature of vice!

Kate is beside me and yet I must not fuck her

Disapproving lips all about me are a-pucker!

I sit there, I sit there, I try to blend in

But all I can think of is lovely heroin

I still there, I stroke my veins

I sit there in my sober chains


Dying inside, DYING INSIDE!

All is for duty – all is a lie!

I want to leap to my feet, and these proceedings decry!




However long I sit here, a shameful detainee

They will always loathe me – I can never win!

I am a vampire – drenched in sin!

I got high on heroin at her cousin’s weddin’!


And they will not forget, they will not forget!


The spectacle I made that day can never be reset

Forever and always, I am a creature of regret

And so I shall sit here, on this accursed Christmas Day

Eating cake and smiling, and pretending I’m ok

And they will survey me with hatred in their eyes

Knowing I’m a useless cunt in a useless cunt’s disguise –

Christmas makes me want to fucking die

It makes me want to DIE!


But finally it’s over, and I shall go HOME

And in my own abode, I shall be free to roam!

I will fuck my girlfriend, and I will get high

And nobody will stare at me with hatred in their eyes!

For every foul word I’m told I’ll cook a shot of smack

And then I shall ATTACK – I shall ATTACK!

Those veins I sadly sat and stroked

Those veins I shall now gladly poke

I was provoked – I was provoked!

They hated me on Christmas Day!

But when it’s over I’ll have my way

You won’t see me for a week!


With syringes in my hair

Lurking, lurking in my lair




So there!




Well, now I feel rather better. I might depart for Kate’s house now, and the sheepish little silent fuck that awaits me. Merry Christmas, mortals. May you endure it more gracefully than I…

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The Weekend of The Storm

Apparently when I spend a few weeks concentrating on Actual Writing, leaving this blog in the deeply incapable hands of Rob and Eden, it all goes utterly to hell – Eden is now bent on wreaking his ‘fiery vengeance’ upon Rob for those comments he made, but what form this vengeance will take, I have no idea – Eden still seems to be at the plotting, scheming, and heavy drug abuse stage of his vengeance plans, but I get the feeling it might not be a very peaceful Christmas. Today though, Eden is in quite a good mood – Samuel’s been away for the weekend, visiting his oldest friend Frederick, and even though Eden is now 192 years old, he still tends to react like a gleeful teenager whenever Samuel leaves him to his own devices. This time, he and Rob went roaring off in the Lotus on Saturday evening, returning two hours later with a sackful of ecstasy pills and acid tabs, enough weed to sink a ship, and Eden’s obligatory ‘soft landing’ pocketful of heroin.

By Sunday evening, it was pissing with rain as Storm Desmond went crazy on us, and Eden spent several hours sitting in the open doorway with his guitar, getting utterly soaked, and howling Johnny Cash’s Big River into the soggy abyss of the valley – when he finally came in, he claimed that he’d been applauded throughout his performance by a rapt audience of glittering purple frogs, with eyes like glowing cigarette ends, presided over by the King of their race, a metallic purple frog the size of a boat, which had never stopped grinning, proudly displaying its shiny silver teeth. It was several hours before any of us had the cognitive ability to realise that he’d just been serenading the Cadillac and a garden full of slugs.

On Monday, Clara and I had fallen asleep wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire, only to be woken at 10am by Eden leaping into the room, howling triumphantly,


He landed with a thump in the middle of our blanket, beaming widely, his eyes dilated into glittering black circles and his hair standing up in all directions, clutching his ash-smeared laptop and a burning joint.

Look,” he repeated, waving at the screen and nearly melting a hole in it. “Look what I did!”

The news headlines declared that much of Cumbria was now under water, with 60,000 homes left without power, and much of it was due to the River Eden having burst its banks. Eden was beaming at the screen with an expression of delirious pride, and I got the feeling that he’d completely lost the ability to distinguish between the river and himself

“They’ve mobilised the army!” he exclaimed, bouncing up and down, “They’ve got out the mountain rescue teams and all the helicopters, and the whole BBC is talking about how UNSTOPPABLE I am!” He dissolved into gleeful sniggering, took a drag on his joint, and went on, blowing weed smoke all over me, “They just keep talking about how they can’t contain me! They’ve spent millions, maybe BILLIONS, on flood defences, and they said I would never flood again, but I’m COMPLETELY UNSTOPPABLE! I’ve drowned half of England! YOU CAN’T CONTAIN ME!!”

With a joyful whoop, he leapt off the blanket, dumped the laptop on the mahogany chest, and started the computer playing Big River while he unwrapped a sterile spoon and began sprinkling various chemicals into it, seemingly paying no attention whatsoever to what he was doing, as he continued telling me,

“It’s really quite exciting! When I first found this out, four hours ago, I was pretty sure that I was just tripping, but right now I think I might actually be almost sober, and it’s still happening! The news is all about me! I am officially ALL POWERFUL! I am the vengeful God of Cumbria!” He paused, frowning, and stared at the wall for several bemused seconds, chewing his lip, before asking, “But why do I hate Cumbria so much? I mean, it’s very exciting, being so all-powerful, but I’m not sure why I did it to Cumbria It’s Rob I want to drown, really. Although,” he went on, with an air of sage realisation, “I suppose I couldn’t drown Rob, because he was here, and my desire to not drown all my guitars clashed with my desire to drown that wretched motherfucker, and like a pair of BATTLING MAGNETS, my conflicted desires forced all the rain up to Cumbria instead! AND I DROWNED IT!”

“I doubt it,” said Rob, wandering in with his green mohican in total disarray, “I think it was just your godawful fucking singing. The storm tried its best to shut you up, but since we live on top of a hill, unfortunately you’re still alive and squawking at cunt o’ clock in the morning…”

“I hate you!” Eden hissed, hunching protectively over his chemical cocktail. “Just you wait! Even the BBC knows that I’m UNSTOPPABLE! I’m ALL OVER THE NEWS! I’m a VENGEFUL GOD! I wouldn’t fuck with me, if I were you…”

Rob blew a lacklustre raspberry and dumped himself down on the couch, picking up the half empty bottle of whiskey and taking a gulp, before asking,

“What the hell are you making?”

“I don’t know,” Eden replied, grinning deviously. “I haven’t even been looking! It’s a witch’s brew of sinister proportions!”

He reached out to grab another wrap of miscellaneous drugs, but Rob slapped his hand away, peering into the spoon and telling him,

“I think there’s enough in there already, DJ Smackhead. You know Samuel’s coming back soon – if he walks in to find you having a seizure all over the carpet it’s gonna be me who gets the bollocking.”

“Today?” Eden repeated, frowning. “No he isn’t! It’s Sunday today. Stop trying to mindfuck me!”

“You mindfucked yourself,” Rob retorted, leaning over to prod the laptop. “Look – Monday. That’s Samuel Day, so behave yourself, O Conquering Lord of Cumbria.”

“I am,” Eden agreed, picking up a syringe of dubious cleanliness and squirting water into his Cauldron of Mysteries. “I am a fiendish fiend. It’s no wonder I can’t remember yesterday, what with drowning the whole of Cumbria. I definitely deserve this, now.”

He picked up a lighter, and began frying his spoonful of drugs. As the hideous chemical stench that emanated from the boiling solution reached me, I suggested,

“Why don’t you just smoke a joint and come to bed?”

Nope!” he stated, laying down the spoon and snatching up a cigarette filter with a proud flourish, stabbing it onto the syringe and beginning to suck up his reeking drug-soup.

“Sex?” I offered. “Lots of sex?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he said, painstakingly extracting every last drop from the brown-stained filter. “I might not know what day it is, but I know what you’re up to! You never, ever want sex at this time in the morning!”

“I reckon I could manage it, if it would make you squirt that crap out of the window.”

He shook his head firmly, but darted across the room to give me a kiss, replying,

“I am extremely flattered that you would give me some grumpy reluctant morning sex, and you would probably do quite a good job of pretending to be enthusiastic about it, but I am going to have to politely decline. For now. I’ll see how I feel after this.”

And then he shot across the room in a rush of air, snatching a belt off the mahogany chest and vanishing into the furthest corner, holding up his syringe full of fuck-knows-what, giving it a quick flick, and snapping the belt around his arm. Rob sighed despairingly, and took a large gulp of whiskey. Eden was industriously poking around in his arm, and despite his visibly shaky hands, he managed to force every drop of his foul concoction into a vein, before yanking out the syringe, and hurling it victoriously across the room. It slammed into an oil painting like a dart, and hung there, quivering slightly.

“You alright?” I asked, watching him from around the sofa.

Eden was staring up at the ceiling with an expression of absolute awe. He looked like he’d seen the face of God up there.

“I can’t hear FUCKING ANYTHING!” he yelled. “I mean, I can’t hear a fucking thing, and I can’t feel my face – it’s COMPLETELY AMAZING! I feel like a SPACESHIP BEING LAUNCHED INTO THE SUN!”

He leapt to his feet, and came bounding across the room, but after three strides, he abruptly tripped over his feet and crumpled into a lifeless heap on the rug.

“Impressive,” said Rob, leaning over to give him a poke. Eden didn’t react. “Really impressive! Absolute hyperactivity, directly into a coma, all in the space of ten seconds flat. Don’t see that often, even from him!”

“What do you think he took?” I asked. I could hear his heartbeat – it was doing strange things, but it was still beating, which was something of a relief. Intravenous drugs had never killed a vampire to our knowledge, but Eden certainly liked to test those limits.

Rob picked up Eden’s soggy filter, and gave it a lick. After another lick, he grimaced, and reported,

“Shitload of heroin, fair bit of coke, little sprinkling of ecstasy, and…weird…I’d swear there’s ketamine in here too, which makes him a devious fucking swine – he never told me he had any of that…”

“He hasn’t got any,” I said, frowning. “He always shares it with me, even when he’s busy hating you. In fact, he really likes sharing it with me when he hates you, it makes him even more smug…”

“Hmm,” said Rob, regarding the filter thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve taken the ecstasy, and I’ve taken the coke, and the acid, and all the other old crap we had in the house already, and none of them had ketamine in it, so I’m guessing Eden’s smack dealers are either giving him a fun Christmas surprise, or he owes them money and they’re trying to bump him off completely…which is always a fine line, in Eden’s world. Either way, it’s great news – bit of murderous revenge is the best way to cure a comedown, we’ll eat those fuckers this week!”

Grinning, he flicked on the TV.

Over the next hour, Rob dragged us on a bizarre tour of his new favourite programme, My Strange Addiction, with people claiming to be addicted to eating clay face masks, drinking gasoline, licking up nail polish, and sniffing decapitated dolls. Somewhere around the middle of Gasoline Girl, when she revealed that her favourite thing to do was to make a gasoline-and-newspaper sandwich and then eat it, mmmdelicious, Eden stirred on the floor, and finally managed to sit up, mumbling,

“These people…are really…really…fuckin’ weird…”

“Jesus,” said Rob, “That’s quite an insult, coming from you. Congrats on the reincarnation, Garden Boy…”

Eden made an attempt at standing up, fell over, and made his way onto the sofa next to me doing something halfway between a crawl and a breaststroke.

“I have no regrets,” he said contentedly, lifting up the blanket I was draped in and burrowing underneath it until only his eyes were visible. “I’ve been inside my brain, for years and years, having an interesting adventure! At least I think it was interesting. It seemed interesting, at the time, but now I can’t remember anything about it, apart from the bit where I inhabited the body of a gigantic green trout, and swam across Cumbria, terrifying the locals with my trouty physique, but also doing lots of good deeds – I was a saintly trout, in truth. I rescued all the dogs, and carried them to safety, but I shunned the cats and left them there to drown, and then I…” he trailed off, staring at the TV, and frowned, asking, “Is this really real, or am I still inside my brain?”

“Both,” I told him. “You’re always inside your brain, but this is a real TV programme, and that girl is really drinking petrol.”

Why?” Eden asked, staring at me with wide, dilated eyes, as though I was about to reveal to him the meaning of life. “Why? What does petrol do? I’ve never tried it… Should I try it? Is it good? Am I missing something? Is it worth-”

“No,” I said firmly, “I think you can leave petrol off the menu for ‘Injection Roulette’, please – she just likes the taste. And it makes her dizzy. That’s about it.”

“Fucking weird…” Eden mumbled, burrowing further beneath his blanket. “Weird…”

“What gets me,” said Rob, “Is why no one’s pointed out to her, ‘You know they make booze for that purpose, don’t you? Why don’t you just go and buy a bottle of Wild Turkey, and get as ‘dizzy’ as you like, without dropping fucking dead, you absolute prat?’. Are they all as stupid as she is?”

“Thass a really good point, actually,” Eden agreed, re-emerging from the depths of his blanket. “I reckon this is what happens to people, when they don’t have proper drugs. They make up all these demented addictions. I mean, look at this!” He gestured to the screen, where the Doll Head Sniffer was ecstatically huffing her creepy remnant, and bemoaning her terrible addiction. “I mean,” he continued, “If human beings can get addicted to this sort of thing, is it any wonder that I’m so dys…dys…wosstheword…”

“Dysfunctional?” Clara suggested, still lying sprawled out in front of the fire.

“A bit,” Eden agreed, nodding. “I am a little bit. What was I saying? Did I tell you about being a trout? I was a big green trout, and I was saving all the-”

“Yes, you told us,” Rob interrupted.

“I like my brain…” Eden mumbled, vanishing into the depths of the blanket.

We lapsed into silence, until the next episode began, featuring a woman whose addiction was bee stings – “We have great sex,” she said to her husband, “When I’ve had about ten stings!”

Creative!” Eden whispered, sounding awed as he burst out from beneath the blanket. “That’s a really really creative addiction!”

“I think it’s kinda mean,” Clara replied, sitting up and poking the fire. “Bees die when they sting you. She should at least use wasps, instead of being a horrible kinky murderer…”

Rob snorted. “God forbid! I’ve never met a kinky murderer in my entire life!”

Clara laughed, pointing out,

“Well they deserved it, and you enjoyed it.”

“I really did. First sex we ever had, right next to a corpse with a ripped off dick. That’s why I love you so much.”

“My Strange Addiction,” I said, grinning, “I can’t stop ripping off men’s dicks! I bet they’d go for that one…”

“Well,” said Eden, still staring at the TV, “I feel very sane and upstanding, after this. Some people in the world are excessively peculiar. Just think about it, I could be addicted to eating my socks and then vomiting them back up again, and then sticking them to the window, all dripping with sick, or I could be addicted to stuffing slugs up my nose, or trying to shove my own bollocks into my rectum, or finding women with sticky-out bellybuttons and then biting them, but I’m not. I’m not! I’m not peculiar at all! I just like heroin a bit too much, which is perfectly acceptable, really, compared to all these raving lunatics. Everybody knows that heroin is very nice – a bit too nice, really. That’s the problem. Which means that I’m absolutely sane and normal. But these peculiar people, they shun poor old heroin, and stuff bees up their arse instead. And that, is really weird.”

“Oh, poor old heroin!” said Rob, grinning. “What total bastards they are, hurting heroin’s delicate feelings!”

“They really are,” Eden agreed. “They’re missing out on a lovely hobby, and that sort of thing does make me sad…”

Laughing, I gave him a kiss, and the front door slammed. Rob swore, and Clara vanished in a rush of air, whooshing around the room like a DEA tornado, making drugs and syringes disappear until the living room looked vaguely presentable. She’d just resumed her seat, picking up her phone and casually browsing something, when Samuel walked in.

Oh no!” Eden hissed, yanking the blanket over his head and curling up in my lap like a particularly timid black ghost. “He’s come back! It really is Monday!”

Rob violently elbowed the Eden-lump, which grumbled bitterly.

“Had a nice weekend?” Clara asked, glancing up from her phone.

Samuel eyed Eden’s blanketed form with suspicion, and finally sighed, stating,

“I am not even going to enquire as to what he’s been up to, but the price of my forgiveness will be one large joint, rolled by Eden himself. If he finds himself incapable of this small, simple act, he will be going directly into the cage.”

The blanket let out a squeal of terror, and wriggled around until it fell off the sofa with a loud thump. Eden tumbled out, and hurriedly produced his rolling tin, dumping rizlas and tobacco all over the mahogany chest with shaking hands. To distract from his ongoing ineptitude, I asked,

“How’s Frederick?”

“Rather peeved,” Samuel replied, smiling slightly. “I took him ghost hunting again. He had an utterly horrible time, and I enjoyed myself immensely…hence why I am willing to overlook the obvious shambles that has taken place in my absence…”

“You’re not allowed to go ghost hunting!” Eden protested. “One day you’re going to meet something really, really awful, and it’s going to send you insane!”

“Ahhh,” said Samuel, “This will be the inevitable lecture upon the state of my sanity, coming from the boy with eyes like vacant soup-plates, tangled up in a blanket, and presumably responsible for that.” He pointed to the syringe hanging from the oil painting, and Eden shrivelled into his blanket, holding out a rather bent joint in penance. Samuel took it, smiling, and continued,

“I will say not a word on the subject of your clearly rather dubious pursuits, provided you allow me to smoke this in peace. Also, I am going out ghost-hunting next weekend as well, accompanied by Vlad, and you, Syringe Creature, will not say a word.”

“But Vlad’s a complete fucking-” Eden began, but thought better of it, and lapsed into sulky silence. Samuel sat down, and lit his joint, humming contentedly.

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